


Perfect

by Curledup



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Caretaker Mycroft Holmes, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Pining, Pre-Canon, Protective Mycroft, Protective Sherlock, Protective Siblings, Revenge, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, brothers in love, graphic descriptions of violence and rape, in a video from Sherlock's university time, maybe one-sided sexual attraction, not between Sherlock and Mycroft, planning and scheeming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-01-06 20:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12218403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curledup/pseuds/Curledup
Summary: Mycroft is well on his way to being the British government, and Sherlock has just started building up his work as consulting detective. When he falls ill, and Mycroft has to take care of him, secrets each brother has kept from the other for years are revealed involuntarily. Will it break their already strained relationship completely, or will they stop running and finally face facts and each other?





	1. secrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love story between two brothers. Although I have not decided yet, how far their relationship will end up going in the phyisical domain further down the road, they are very much in love with each other. So, if this ist not your cup of tea, you may not want to read this story. 
> 
> Also, the topics of rape and sexual assault come up in this story as occurrences in one character's past. If you are triggered by this or just do not want to deal with the topic, you may want to turn away from this story.
> 
> I have planned out the whole story already, but am still in the process of writing the later parts.

When he entered Sherlock’s room, he laid his brother down on the bed. He had informed his butler on their journey to the house to have the room prepared that Sherlock always used, when he stayed at his place. On the rare occasions that happened. He could have had one of the security carry Sherlock from the car. They were certainly more butch than he was. But his brother wasn’t heavy despite being fairly tall, actually seemed rather on the thin side again at the moment. So he had managed easily. But even if he’d weighed more, he would not have missed out on the opportunity to feel Sherlock so close again. To touch him without his brother tensing up or pulling away immediately, without them both feeling awkward about it. 

The last time touching him had felt natural and comfortable was when they had both still been children. Sherlock had jumped into his arms then, when he came back from school. They had had very tactile pretend fights playing pirates, he’d had to fetch his little brother out of trees, or he would fall asleep in his bed, his head in his big brother’s lap, while they were both reading a book at night. Then his own focus had turned first to university then to his career, and Sherlock had grown, body and mind, boundless energy, boundless curiosity, brilliant, unstoppable, indomitable mind, absolutely fearless and at times totally reckless in his urge to understand whatever it was set on. Wildly passionate about it and that wasn’t the only aspect in his brother’s life where sentiment interfered with reason time and again. 

People who only met Sherlock now saw his aloof, socially inadequate behaviour, his focus on detailed facts, never on feelings – his own or those of others – his inexistent social life and lack of friends. The most positive label they could come up with tended to be ‘autistic’, though mainly they did not bother and it was just ‘freak’ or ‘machine’. But he knew better. Sherlock had been a very sensitive, affectionate and playful child. Unfortunately, because his brain worked so much faster and better than average people’s, and this showed as soon as Sherlock opened his mouth, other people hardly ever loved him back. 

Mycroft did though, probably even more so, because his own mind worked the same way. While his big brother was there, Sherlock always had a friend, the perfect friend. He did not just love him, he also understood him, without words, without tedious explanations; because he knew him completely. And Sherlock had adored him, trusted him heart and mind. There had been no need for anyone else. While Mycroft was there, Sherlock had never been alone and never lacked anything. 

Later, Sherlock had reached out to others a few times, in an attempt to be normal. He had tried to find another friend, to love somebody else. But disappointment always came quickly, nobody quite matched up. Mycroft taught his little brother then, what he had come to learn himself before: ‘Caring is not an advantage. We are different, there is no bridging the gap, accept it and don’t waste your energy on pointless feelings.’ They had each other to care for. Mycroft never felt the need to expand sentimental attachments to anybody else, and he never cared for anybody else’s love but his brother’s. Nobody, after all, would ever match up. 

Sherlock, unlike himself, had had a hard time coming to terms with the reality of their being different and set apart from ordinary people, and that had separated the two brothers. Sherlock did not want to believe him first, then blamed him for the fact and finally resented him for his superior coping strategies. He had wanted to protect his little brother from being hurt, but, as a consequence, Sherlock put as much distance between their lives as he possibly could, hardly ever agreeing to meet him, not reacting to calls, choosing a career and lifestyle very different from his own. His brother only ever sought him out, when he needed something that his big brother’s position in the government could provide him with or when his emotional control threatened to break down, and he needed the stabilizing comfort of the only person who really understood how his mind worked. And that happened more and more rarely.

Being injured or being ill, running a high fever, as he did now, was no reason Sherlock would come to him. So, since his brother’s new line of career as consulting detective and his general disinterest to look after himself properly brought him into the path of injury and illness on a regular basis, Mycroft had long since resorted to spontaneous personal check ups on him, especially when his calls and messages were left ignored for too long. Of course, Sherlock hated these visits – his bouts of overprotectiveness, as Sherlock termed them - and would normally start a petty quarrel over basically anything or try to annoy him with a nasty insult just to make him walk out. 

But today he had continued lying on the sofa as he walked in, on his back with his eyes closed, and had only told him to get lost in a very small voice that did not carry any energy at all. No jibe, no cutting remark, he did not even turn his back on him. Naturally then, Mycroft had been alarmed, even more so when he had walked up closer and noticed his brother’s shivering frame and burning skin as he touched his forehead.  
“Since when have you had a fever?”  
He kept his voice casual.  
“Dunno, ‘m fine”, Sherlock mumbled.  
“Clearly.”

Mycroft lifted his brother’s arm, meeting no resistance. The skin there was very hot as well. He felt his pulse. Racing.  
“Sherlock, open your eyes and look at me.”  
No reaction.  
“Sherlock, I need you to open your eyes for me. Now”, Mycroft said again, putting more urgency in his words.  
That earned him a groan from Sherlock, but he did turn his head towards his brother’s voice and opened his eyes, trying to focus. It took him effort, Mycroft noticed.  
“Go ‘way, M’croft, ‘m tired.”  
And he slid his eyes closed again.  
“At this level of articulacy, brother dear, it must be bad. I’m afraid I can’t leave you here on your own in this state. It’s obvious you can’t look after yourself. It’s either the hospital or my place. Which shall it be?” 

He expected some sort of protest from Sherlock, since neither option would appeal to him at all. But to his astonishment, none came. His brother’s state must be weaker than he thought. Sherlock only lifted his arm slightly and waved it in the direction of his brother.  
“My house it is, then. So, let’s get you up, brother.”  
The pyjama bottoms and old T-Shirt his brother was wearing would have to do for the journey. There were more clothes his brother’s size at his house, and he could send somebody here to fetch some more things for Sherlock later. 

He pulled his brother up into a sitting position, which elicited another groan, turned him 90°, putting his bare feet on the ground at the same time. Then he bent, laid his brother’s right arm across his shoulders, his own left arm around Sherlock’s slim waist, straightened up and pulled again, lining his brother up against his side with this movement. Sherlock’s curls came to rest against his neck as his head lolled to the side. Their bodies were in rather close physical contact this way, something they had not been in a very long time, and that gave Mycroft an unexpected and strange sensation. 

Sherlock did not flinch at this intensified contact, his muscles did not tense. That could only mean he was at best half conscious, because he would never allow such close proximity from his brother or anyone else, if he was fully aware. The short way to the car waiting outside was accordingly slow, and by the end Mycroft was all but carrying his brother who had gone limp in the meantime, pressing him tightly to his side to keep him upright. During the car ride, Sherlock had fallen asleep completely, unresponsive to Mycroft’s attempts at gaining more information about when and how his brother had fallen ill or getting any physical or verbal reaction from him. He did not wake up or even stir, when they arrived at the house and he was shifted to accommodate him in his brother’s grasp. 

That’s how Mycroft had ended up walking through his home holding his sleeping younger brother in his arms, a fond memory forming in his mind of similar situations a long time ago in their childhood home. Now, Sherlock lay on the bed in front of him, his breathing too shallow and rapid, his body emanating feverish heat. Mycroft was worried, but although there was nobody to see him, he was still careful his appearance would not show any concern. Years of practice had that coming to him almost naturally. How could his brother have let the situation get so out of hand, ignored his body, until it just collapsed on him? Unwise indeed.

Mycroft’s doctor, whom he had contacted from the car, would arrive shortly, but he had to do something now, couldn’t just sit and wait. This fever had to come down or it might soon rise to dangerous heights. He took off his slightly crinkled looking suit jacket, put it over the back of the desk chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his expensive shirt. Then he went to fetch a tub of cold water, flannels and some towels, set it all down on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed next to his brother and went to work.

Mycroft brushed some hair out of Sherlock’s forehead, taking in the pleasant sensation of those soft black curls sliding trough his fingers that only still retained a very faint memory of it. He smiled sadly renewing the sensation now. Then he applied a wet flannel to Sherlock’s pale face dabbing carefully at his forehead, the skin over his high cheekbones, so very sharp, the slightly round yet still strong jaw line. The feeling of the cold flannel on his skin made his brother flinch but not wake up. He instinctively turned his head away from Mycroft’s hand holding the cold fabric and tried to bury his face into the cushion, by this straining and exposing his long, elegant neck and making the throbbing pulse point there very visible. 

It was only after a moment, that Mycroft noticed he had stopped moving his hand and was holding his breath. He exhaled quickly and took care to return to his normal breathing pattern, as he let the flannel glide over his brother’s neck and face again. He heard a soft moan from Sherlock, as he tried once more to get away from the cold, but his eyes remained closed.  
“Shshsh, brother, relax, this will make you feel better.”  
He went on quietly.  
“You’re burning up, we have to bring the fever down.”  
He meant for his voice to be soothing, though he wasn’t even sure Sherlock was conscious enough to hear him. 

His brother’s rapid breaths were coming through slightly parted lips. Mycroft rinsed the flannel, dipped it into the water again, and then wet Sherlock’s dry lips with it. He repeated this action several times. Each time, Sherlock’s tongue would dart out and lick the liquid from his lips. Beautiful. Where did that thought come from? Slightly disconcerted, Mycroft stopped his ministrations, the dripping flannel still on his brother’s mouth. Those plush lips started sucking at the soaked fabric then, and this sight definitely stirred something inside of him that Mycroft could not allow to be stirred by his brother. 

He felt himself blush, and he quickly removed the flannel and left the room. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen to drink a glass of water, downing a second one right after in the hope to regain his calm. What had he been thinking just now? He huffed at his stupid choice of term. Obviously, that was the problem. He had not been thinking. He filled another glass for Sherlock and took it back to his brother’s room. He gently lifted Sherlock’s head from the cushion and brought the glass to his lips.  
“This is easier than sucking the liquid from a flannel”, he said in a teasing voice, thinking ‘when did you last drink something, Brother?’  
Sherlock drank eagerly, then let his head sink back to the cushion. 

Believing his brother was possibly close to surfacing to wakefulness right now, Mycroft went on.  
“It would probably do you good, if we tried to cool your body some more.”  
He waited.  
“Sherlock, do you understand? Your chest and back, and maybe your legs, too. I brought some towels to wrap ‘round you.”  
“Mmm”, came an indefinable sound from Sherlock.  
“Will you let me do that for you, brother?”  
Mycroft asked quietly. After a moment, there was the tiniest nod. Good, this consent from him, worrying, but good.

Mycroft slid one arm between the bed and Sherlock’s back and brought him into a sitting position.  
“You can go back to sleep in a minute, just need to take this shirt off. Lift your arms for me, little brother.”  
But Sherlock just slumped against Mycroft’s chest, managing but a very small movement with his arms in a distinctly uncoordinated manner. So, Mycroft held his brother’s arms up by his thin wrists with one hand, pulling the shirt up and over his head with the other. That went rather smoothly, he thought, for a man like himself who wasn’t in the habit of even touching anybody, much less undressing them. And the physical contact with his brother did not even feel awkward. He wondered why. Maybe it was because Sherlock was hardly conscious through it, but more likely because his touches had an instrumental reason, not a social or even sentimental one. Best keep it that way. For there were still other kinds of touches he had found himself thinking about, and awkward would not be a severe enough term to describe those. He stopped his train of thought deliberately. Forbidden ground.

While Mycroft was rubbing down Sherlock’s back with the wet flannel, his brother’s torso rested lightly against his chest. He felt it shiver and tense up, whenever the cold fabric touched his skin, so he squeezed his brother’s shoulder reassuringly a couple of times, with the hand he was holding him in place with. Then he adjusted the cushions at the head of the bed and propped his brother up against them. Sherlock’s head lolled back against the headboard, eyes remaining shut the whole time, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Maybe he was asleep again, it was hard to say. 

Mycroft watched his brother for a moment. He was worried seeing him this weak and not knowing, as of yet, what caused the fever. But it was not just worry he felt. It was joy, too, at having his brother here under his roof, being able to sit next to him and spend time with him without Sherlock trying to get rid of him immediately, even if their interaction was fairly one-sided so far. There was gratefulness, as well, for getting the chance to keep his brother safe for a small while and taking care of him, like a big brother should. And then, there was another feeling still, as his gaze lingered on the alabaster skin of his brother’s lithe frame, his impossibly long legs, his slim waist and slender-muscled body, his wild black curls framing his beautiful face. 

When Sherlock was still a little boy, he had always thought him utterly beautiful, a wild little imp of liquid ebony and ivory with the tantalizing sparkles of the alien world he seemed to be coming from dancing in his eyes. Well, something like that anyway, he had never really been one for poetry. To his own astonishment though, his brother’s growing into manhood had not in the least changed his perception of him. Rather, Sherlock with a grown-up body – all smooth porcelain skin, sleek muscles and long limbs in almost continual, graceful movement - had unexpectedly elicited a very physical attraction from Mycroft, as unwelcome as it was undeniable. 

The attraction and the physical reactions of his own body to it were not unexpected, because the object of this attraction was his own brother. No, that such attraction would come to Mycroft from his brother seemed logical enough. The unexpected part was that such strong physical attraction towards another body did come to him at all. He had never really been interested in people, their bodies or what carnal interactions one could have with them. Tiresome, messy, required physical contact and, more worryingly, included loss of control at some stage, if only momentarily. Not worth his while. 

It was much more efficient to tend to the needs and occasional urges of his body himself. Though, of course, he had engaged in sexual interactions with others occasionally in the past – men and women – in order to practice and perfect his skills in a field that might proof useful in his line of work, and because it was so easy to seduce them. He found he liked the feeling of control over another person that gave him.

Mycroft had never acted on the attraction he felt for Sherlock though, could not, would not. Not because it was illegal. He wasn’t concerned about a law so clearly rooted in a morality that may have had its procreatory uses in ancient societies, but was completely outdated now and had never made any sense for sexual intercourse between men in the first place. Mycroft never made a move towards his brother, because he feared it would destroy their relationship; immediately, if Sherlock did not reciprocate his feelings; gradually, but no less definitively, if he did. 

Therefore, although Mycroft had always been careful not to give off any signs that could betray him to anyone observing, when interacting with his younger brother, the distance Sherlock had forced between them in recent years had been a blessing at least in this respect. Mycroft had hoped that, by now, this infatuation would have passed, worn off and transformed into just a general appreciation of beauty, like one felt for a perfect piece of art. Well, apparently not. 

Mycroft went ahead to swipe Sherlock’s chest with the soaking flannel, but as soon as it touched his skin, his brother winced as if in pain, and his hand started towards it to try and bat it away. Mycroft caught Sherlock’s hand in his own and gently pinned it down on the bed – his warm, sure, firmly pressing fingers over the long, elegant slightly quivering fingers of his brother - and continued to apply cold water to Sherlock’s torso. He made soft humming noises that were meant to be soothing. But perceiving his brother’s body writhing beneath his touches and the strained gasps coming from his mouth repeatedly, Mycroft found his voice sounded rather strained and huskier than a soothing voice should. He felt sudden warmth stir in his lower belly and noticed his breathing hitch. God, where was that doctor? 

He laid the flannel aside suddenly, almost throwing it out of his hand, soaked one of the towels in the tub, wrung it out a bit, and quickly wrapped his brother’s upper body with it. His handling was rather a bit rougher than he had intended, earning him an astonished yelp from Sherlock at the sudden change in activities. Mycroft wrapped another wet towel around Sherlock’s lower legs, gentler this time and just pushing the legs of his brother’s pajama bottoms up over his knees to keep them dry. Then he stood up from the bed.  
“I’m going to check whether that doctor is coming yet, will be right back, Sherlock. You just rest”.  
He excused himself and more or less fled from the room. 

The doctor eventually left him with instructions and medication to keep the fever in check and promised to have the results of the blood analysis within the next few hours. He commented on Sherlock’s apparent state of slight dehydration and malnutrition.  
“Doctor, I’m not in the habit of keeping track of my adult brother’s meals.”  
“No, an IV drip would not be welcomed by him. Rest assured I will coax enough liquids into him through conventional entrances.”  
The doctor also strongly advised transferring Sherlock to a hospital.  
“That is completely out of the question, doctor. I’m sure you see that it would already have happened, had it ever been an option.”  
“I really do understand your concern there, but fortunately for you, the wellbeing of my brother will never be your responsibility. It is and will be mine. Exclusively.”  
It was so time consuming and dull to always have to spell everything out for those ordinary others. Couldn’t they just shut up and follow instructions? 

The pills had a fast and positive effect on the fever. When Mycroft looked in on his brother again after working in his study for a couple of hours, Sherlock already threatened to get up and leave.  
“When you’ve got your health back, you can leave,” Mycroft stated calmly.  
“And that won’t happen for a while, little brother.”  
“I could walk out of here right now.”  
Sherlock’s voice sounded frustrated.  
“Out of the room,” Mycroft smiled smugly, “perhaps. But why don’t you start by giving your body some much needed fuel, dear brother. I had soup prepared earlier. I’ll fetch you some.” 

Mycroft returned hardly five minutes later. Stepping up in front of Sherlock’s room with a bowl of steaming soup and a glass of water on a tray, he heard a thud and a groan coming from inside. Quickly pushing open the door he saw his brother on the carpeted floor in the middle of the room, desperately trying to get up again but not quite managing. A bit like a drunk cat he looked, Mycroft thought. So not even out of the room, then. He put the tray on the bedside table, went over to his brother, and put him on his feet again. Keeping his hands on Sherlock’s waist he steadied him for the few steps back to the bed. 

Sherlock lay down with a scowl.  
“I underestimated the distance to the bathroom.”  
“Overestimated your strength for the way back.”  
From the trajectory of Sherlock’s body on the floor, Mycroft knew his brother had been on his way back to the bed, when he had fallen.  
“Always too reckless, brother mine.”  
“Reckless, Mycroft? I was going to the loo, not off to fight some criminal organisation.”  
“If you don’t start putting some food and drink inside you, your body won’t even stand for that.”  
Sherlock glared at him darkly, but Mycroft just gave him an amused smile.  
“Eat, drink, sleep, get well, Sherlock. That’s the recipe to get rid of me.”  
“At least bring me my laptop then, Mycroft.” 

And then the fever escalated, and with it came the nightmares that had Sherlock thrashing and screaming in his bed for a good part of the night. Mycroft sat by him, tried to calm him, and in between the screaming and thrashing got him to drink some water and wiped the sweat off his face. After a seeming eternity, the dreams subsided and Sherlock just slept, utterly exhausted. That was the cue for Mycroft to get himself comfortable on the other side of the large bed and doze as well. 

He was woken sometime later by the sound of a voice coming from somewhere near the window; Sherlock’s voice. He was talking to somebody. But no other voice was audible.  
“Just forget it, Sebastian. I will never agree to have sex with you or any of your friends. I’m not interested.”  
Mycroft blinked himself awake trying to convince his body that it was not still feeling terribly tired.  
“What do you mean, you don’t need my consent?”  
Sherlock sounded agitated and short of breath, as if he was under physical strain.  
“Are you going to beat me into submission? I’d like to see you try, Sebastian.” 

Twice now his brother had mentioned that name. It did not ring a bell. What was going on? Was he on the phone with someone? But it was the middle of the night. And how could his brother be up at all? Fully surfaced now, Mycroft looked towards the window. He had left the light on the bedside table turned on, when he went to sleep, so the room was dimly lit. Sherlock was pacing in front of the window, ceaselessly staring at the desk chair, as if his conversation was directed at it. He was wearing the fresh pajamas he had put on, while he had been feeling better earlier. The whole scene looked eerily unreal somehow.  
“Blackmail?”  
Sherlock snickered glaring at the chair.  
“Seriously? I can’t be blackmailed, you moron. Everybody thinks I’m a freak anyway. And I have no friends.”  
He sounded disdainful. 

Sex? Blackmail? What indeed was going on? Who was his brother talking to? Going over a recent conversation with some Sebastian in his mind? Was this about one of his cases? But a case that involved others coercing him to have sex and threatening blackmail? Also, Sherlock seemed to know this Sebastian person. But he did not socialize, did not have friends or even colleagues apart from maybe this detective inspector from the Met who had started calling him in for some of his more difficult cases. His name wasn’t Sebastian, though. It was Gregory, Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft hat done a thorough background check on him, as soon the association with his brother had started. Can’t be too careful. So, what was his brother doing?  
”Sherlock?”  
Mycroft started softly.  
“What’s the matter?”  
His brother did not acknowledge him.  
“No, you will not”, Sherlock went on speaking to the chair instead, the tone of his voice dark and threatening now.  
“You will leave my brother out of this. You will keep your vile fingers off him.”  
Sherlock took two steps towards the chair, drew himself up very straight and squared his shoulders. At first, he still glared down at the chair, but then his gaze wandered upward until he stared straight ahead, as if he was following someone who had been sitting down and hat now got up from the chair. And suddenly Mycroft understood. High fever, nightmares, and now - hallucinations. 

This Sebastian character his brother seemed to be seeing at the moment, must be somebody Sherlock knew. Not a current acquaintance, though. Mycroft’s surveillance of his brother was thorough enough that it would inform him of any person his brother had more than instrumental interactions with. There weren’t any. This meant sex wasn’t a current topic, even if Sherlock had been interested in such activities. But Mycroft strongly doubted his brother was interested or that his sexual experience went any further than occasional masturbation. 

Sebastian must be somebody from his past, then, could not have been too long ago with the topic of conversation. But it must be at a point in time, where Mycroft was still in the picture, since Sebastian seemed to know about him and seemed to imply a relationship between Sherlock and him strong enough that it could be used for blackmail. Sex, blackmail, the possible time span, Mycroft ruminated: Most likely a fellow student at Sherlock’s university. The question was, whether the contents of this hallucination were based on any real events in Sherlock’s past. 

Sherlock was still staring at the imagined Sebastian, but all of a sudden, the expression on his face changed from threatening to confused. And there was something else. Fear?  
“But that’s not true”, Sherlock said, his eyes wide and his voice higher and full of disbelief and outrage.  
“He didn’t ever . . we don’t . . .”  
He took a few steps back, as if he wanted to put distance between himself and the accusation his hallucination had obviously just made. He ended up backed against the window.  
“Look, I’m not entirely sure about his sexual preference, but you can’t think just because he doesn’t have a girlfriend at the moment, and he’s visiting me here every now and then, that we’re . . .”  
He had run out of air and had to catch his breath before he could go on. 

Mycroft did not like where this seemed to be going. He would have to find out about this Sebastian character to see, if there was any truth behind this story.  
“I’m not being defensive, you idiot”, Sherlock went on, more confident again.  
“Your implication is so utterly ridiculous, nobody would believe it.”  
He snickered.  
“My brother is the image of perfection, brilliant and kind, more handsome than any of you lot, witty and charming, if he so chooses, accomplished, successful. He could have anyone he likes, it’s so obvious. What could he ever want with me? Nobody would believe your slander, Sebastian.”

It took Mycroft a moment to process his brother’s words. During Sherlock’s time at university their relationship was already very complicated. But they saw each other regularly. Sherlock was not happy at University. Mycroft understood now that, apparently, being bored and not fitting in weren’t the only reason for it. Their interactions had been strained and uncomfortable, and Mycroft would never have guessed Sherlock thought so highly of him, at a time when they were at odds so often – and that he apparently thought so little of himself. That was worrying. To him Sherlock was perfect. How could his brother not have known that? Had he been so careful to hide his feelings from the world that he had hidden them too much from Sherlock, as well? 

Sherlock had been listening to his hallucination. Now he shook his head.  
“Who cares, if you know the PA of my brother’s superior in the government?” He started. Then recognition dawned and he suddenly looked frightened.  
“Oh, you mean . . . , But you can’t, Sebastian, please don’t do this. Mycroft has worked so hard to get to where he is now. This would ruin him.”  
His brother, pleading; unheard of. Sherlock sounded desperate now.  
“Please, leave him out of this. Mycroft could actually be happy in his life, you know, I never stood a chance, but my brother could be happy. Don’t take that away from him.”  
His brother, pleading, for him. If this conversation with Sebastian had really taken place sometime in the past, that meant Sherlock had actually said all that in some form. And if Sherlock’s feverish brain just made it all up, then the thoughts and feelings he expressed were still there inside his mind. He’d had no idea. And he did not know what shocked him more: That he was not aware his brother had apparently felt so strongly for him or that he had failed to notice any of this. 

Mycroft started feeling uneasy, as if he was eavesdropping on something his brother would probably rather bite off his tongue than disclose to him. He moved across the bed, got out of it on the other side, and slowly walked towards his brother, who still did not seem to see him. He stood still again, deliberating what to do next, when Sherlock suddenly slumped against the window and started trembling. His weakened body would not hold him upright much longer, Mycroft thought. But before he could walk up to him, his brother spoke again, now in a very soft and hesitant voice.  
“Okay, Sebastian, I . . . I’ll do . . . anything, . . . if you leave my brother be.” 

Sherlock’s gaze shifted, following the imaginary Sebastian who was seemingly coming up to him. His brother held up both his hands, so they were spread against the window on either side of his head, as if they’d been pinned there.  
“Please, I’ll do anything you want.”  
Then his expression changed, and disgust was written all over his face, as he perceived what Sebastian apparently wanted. Mycroft wanted to end this, but found himself holding his breath. What did this abominable creature ask of you, brother mine? What did he make you do for my sake?  
“Suck off your friends, then you, for starters.”  
Sherlock voiced every word, as if he was choking on it.  
“And the main course will be . . .”.  
He breathed in hard and looked at the floor whispering an almost inaudible:  
“Oh.”  
Mycroft felt nauseous. He did not need that spelt out to know what it meant.

When Sherlock looked up again, his eyes were glazed over, his gaze falling on his brother standing a few steps away from him. He started moving towards him mechanically, no recognition in his eyes. He seemed to be playing out the memories his mind was producing, the movements not his own or not his own now, like a puppet on strings. Mycroft was momentarily rooted to the spot by the spectacle. Therefore, he did not move away, when Sherlock reached him. 

His brother put his hands on Mycroft’s hips and slowly sank to his knees before him. His inviting mouth came to be placed directly in front of his groin, he could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his cock through the fabric of his pajama, and he felt it slowly beginning to stir and stiffen. If he just let this hallucinatory scene play out, a fantasy would become real that he had been harboring for years. And nobody – not even Sherlock – would ever know about it. And he would be guilty of abusing Sherlock’s current defenseless state to commit an act that his brother had apparently suffered immensely to keep even the slandering rumor away from him. 

Mycroft was so shocked that he managed to react only, when Sherlock had started pulling at the waistband of his pajama bottoms. He grabbed him by his biceps and forced him to stand up, holding him at arm’s length.  
“Sherlock, stop this.”  
“But you wanted . . . “  
“No, Sherlock.”  
He shook him lightly.  
“It’s me, Mycroft, you’ve got a fever, you’re hallucinating. Wake up.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were still unfocused, unseeing.  
“Sebastian, I tried, but your friend here doesn’t seem to . . .”  
“No, brother, I’m Mycroft, you’re in my house, you’re ill.”  
Mycroft was getting desperate.  
“This isn’t real. Sebastian is not real. Snap out of it.”  
He slapped his brother across his face rather ungently. 

When Sherlock looked at him again, his eyes seemed clear, his gaze more focused. He stared at Mycroft silently for a few seconds. Then he turned his head towards the window and then the desk chair.  
“Sebastian?”  
He turned back to his brother, a very puzzled look on his face.  
“Mycroft?”  
He started trembling violently now. Mycroft put an arm around his waist to steady him.  
“Yes, Mycroft. You’re safe now. I’ve got you, little brother.”  
“My.”  
It sounded like a sigh of relieve. Mycroft hadn’t heard Sherlock use this nickname for years.  
“It’s alright. You’re alright now.”  
“My, what . . .” 

Suddenly, Sherlock went limp and all but melted against Mycroft’s body, as his brother pulled him close to keep him from collapsing to the floor at his feet. Sherlock’s head rested on his shoulder and he could feel his brother’s breath on the nape of his neck and his soft, warm lips on his skin just above his shirt collar. But Mycroft quickly cleared his mind of all sensual thoughts trying to crowd in on him. With both arms around his brother now, he lifted him up just enough that his feet were off the ground, walked over to the bed and deposited him on the mattress. After having tucked him in again, he fetched the fever medication and a glass of water. Sherlock wasn’t due to take it for another two hours according to the schedule the doctor had set up. But Mycroft did not care. There could not be any harm done by taking them a bit earlier, and he certainly did not want to see any more hallucinating from his brother tonight. 

Mycroft succeeded in making Sherlock swallow the pills and drink the glass of water. When he finally lay down on the other side of the bed again, Sherlock shifted and turned on his side, facing him. His brother’s eyes remained closed, but he brought his right arm up from his side and placed it just barely a couple of centimeters away from Mycroft’s, Sherlock’s lower arm lying alongside Mycroft’s upper arm. Mycroft wondered, how his brother was able to place his arm with such precision without looking, but he didn’t dare move. The sensation of his brother seeking his comforting proximity was too precious. He listened to Sherlock’s breathing, as it slowly deepened and evened out after a while.  
“Don’t worry, little brother, just you rest. I’ll watch over you”, he whispered. 

Early next morning found Mycroft in the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea. Sleep had mostly evaded him, and after a few hours he had given up trying. Instead he had got out of bed, careful not to wake Sherlock, who was finally sleeping peacefully. Mycroft was tired, but then again, he was accustomed to getting little sleep. His line of work brought sleepless nights on a regular basis. 

Thoughts about the contents of his brother’s nightly activities had kept turning in his head, and – even worse – his mind had repeatedly conjured up most vivid images of his beautiful brother’s virginal naked body being abused, invaded, and held down by the vile hands, mouths and disgusting other body parts of currently still faceless specimen of those ordinary people Sherlock had so desperately tried to make friends of at the time. A small part of Mycroft’s mind still wanted to cling to the belief that none of what he had witnessed at night had ever been real. But if it was – and Mycroft knew it was – a lot of his brother’s behaviour over recent years suddenly made much more sense. 

Why had he not seen the pattern? Knowing the facts now, it seemed inconceivable he had missed it. The way Sherlock hat practically cut him off completely from one day to the next and reacted with downright aggression, when he tried to remain in his presence any longer than a given interaction strictly required; his utter lack of self-preservation skills, his often reckless behaviour, his ‘experiments’ with drugs, even his eating habits. Oh yes, of course, Sherlock would say digestion slowed his thinking, but that had never really made any sense. 

Mycroft had tried for a long time to find the reasons and events that had led to their estrangement and Sherlock’s apparent resentment towards him, thinking the problem was his brother being jealous of his slightly higher IQ and of him being able to cope with the world at large much better. So, while he had kept taunting Sherlock and scolding him for such petty sentiments, his little brother had been trying to protect him. By allowing others to abuse and humiliate him, and by pushing him away and putting as much distance between them as possible to ensure he or any insinuated relationship between them could not be used as leverage against his big brother. 

Mycroft had a hard time wrapping his head around this new insight. The shame of it. He had been completely oblivious towards Sherlock’s plight, when it was his responsibility to look out for him. He should be protecting his baby brother, always this, never the other way around. But not only had he utterly failed his brother, when he was most vulnerable; he had also been the cause for Sherlock’s suffering, and so had condemned him to suffer alone, because Mycroft was the only person in the world he could and perhaps would turn to for comfort, the one person who knew and understood him fully, his only, his perfect friend. 

Mycroft felt absolutely miserable. And he did not like feeling miserable. With the exception of things concerning his brother, his preferred state of mind was not feeling anything at all. He actually liked the notion of ‘Ice Man’, the nickname subordinates and peers alike had secretly started referring to him by. Mycroft decided he would convert his current feeling into something more conducive for what he planned to do. Cold, absolutely devastating rage would serve him much better, when he went after Sherlock’s tormentors and destroyed them. 

He took a sip of his tea and briefly closed his eyes as he felt the spicy warmth spread down his throat and into his stomach. There was something he was missing in all of this, still. Not the identity of the culprits. Their names were simply not on his desk yet, enclosed in an unobtrusive manila folder together with many useful details on the miserable existence of their wearers. But they would be, soon. No need to confront Sherlock with it and deal another blow to their precarious relationship. His brother would just deny anything happened. 

No, what was evading him was why Sherlock’s mind would bring up these events now. Maybe the high fever had just churned out his life’s most frightening experiences with the nightmares and hallucinations, had been able to open the doors of those secret rooms in his mind palace, where his brother locked away everything he wanted to forget. But maybe something had occurred recently that triggered Sherlock’s memory, or – worst option – one or several of his brother’s abusers had crossed his path again recently or even currently had contact with him, though Mycroft couldn’t imagine for what reason or why Sherlock would allow it. But he would certainly monitor his brother closely for any signs that this was the case. As soon as ‘Sebastian’s’ identity was disclosed to him, Mycroft would know, if he had contacted his brother again after uni. 

The doorbell rang, and as expected, Beavers, his butler, appeared at the entrance to the kitchen soon after holding a small bottle in his hand.  
“The antibiotics, I presume”, Mycroft said stretching out his hand towards the Butler.  
“Thank you, Beavers. I received a text from the doctor earlier with instructions on dosage. Apparently, my brother has managed to contract an infection which is responsible for his fever.”  
“Well, I hope it’s nothing too serious, sir?” the Butler asked.  
“It would not be, if Sherlock had not ignored it for a while and had weakened his body with deprivation of food and sleep for days because he was working a case. You know my brother.” 

Mycroft sighed and the butler gave him a sympathetic smile. He had been serving the Holmes family for many years; first the parents, now the elder son. He had known both brothers since they were children.  
“As it is”, Mycroft went on, “it will take longer and be more taxing for his body to battle the bacteria. Once the infection is gone, it will take quite some time and effort to nurse him back to health. And you know what an impatient man my brother is and how easily he gets bored.”  
“I’m sure you’ll find ways to entertain him and see him through this, sir”, Beavers replied confidently.  
“Just like when you were children, you would always see him through bad patches. The only person Mr. Sherlock would accept help from, I remember.”  
“I’m not so sure about that now”, Mycroft murmured more to himself, as Beavers walked away again. 

He drank the last of his tea, then got up and put the cup in the sink. He filled a glass of water for Sherlock, put the pill bottle in the pocket of his waistcoat and walked upstairs to his brother’s bedroom. Sherlock was still blissfully asleep, and Mycroft was loath to wake him. The blanket had slid down to his waist, his chest rising and falling evenly, his features completely relaxed. He looked achingly young and fragile, and Mycroft felt a fierce wave of protectiveness surge through him. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed from the fever, and although a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin, Mycroft noticed slight shivers running through his brother’s body. The fever was on the rise again. 

He quietly put glass and pill bottle on the bedside table and went to fetch a wet flannel from the bathroom. Then he sat down at the edge of the bed and gently wiped Sherlock’s forehead with it. His brother stirred slightly, but slept on.  
“Sherlock”, Mycroft called in a low voice, “you need to wake up. It’s time for your medication.”  
When there was no reaction, Mycroft hesitated for a moment, but then he put away the flannel and instead cupped his brother’s cheek with his hand and started to slowly stroke over his cheekbone with his thumb, back and forth. He felt a bit awkward. He could not remember, when he had caressed his brother’s cheek the last time or if he ever had. Just when he wanted to withdraw his hand, Sherlock turned his head towards him leaning into his touch unconsciously. Mycroft felt his chest grow tight.  
“Sherlock”, he tried again, “wake up now. Just to take your medication and drink something. Then you can rest again.”

Finally, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered open, his eyes glassy, his gaze not quite focused. Immediately, Mycroft lifted his head from the cushion and held two pills to his lips keeping up faint pressure, until his brother opened his mouth enough to slip them inside. Then he brought the water to his lips.  
“Swallow, Sherlock. One is for the fever, the other is antibiotics. You’ve got yourself an infection. Hence the fever.”  
Sherlock just looked at him, confused, but complied.  
“And the rest of the water, too”, Mycroft insisted.  
“You need to keep hydrated.” 

With his head on the cushion again Sherlock glanced around the room, then back at Mycroft.  
“This isn’t my dorm room.”  
His voice was no more than a whisper. Mycroft frowned.  
“You’re not at university”, he started carefully.  
“You’re at my place.”  
“Holidays?”  
Sherlock seemed to try to make sense of the situation, but he clearly was not lucid. Mycroft thought about what to say next.  
“You’re quite ill. That’s why I brought you home, until you’re well.”  
Sherlock’s gaze wandered around the room again.  
“This isn’t home?”  
He was even more confused now. Well done, Mycroft.  
“I moved recently”, he said, slightly exasperated and annoyed at the way this conversation proceeded.  
“Look, Sherlock, we can discuss all this later. You just need rest now. Go back to sleep.” 

Sherlock seemed to acquiesce for the moment and closed his eyes. But when Mycroft had already gathered up the things from the bedside table and made to leave the room, Sherlock suddenly drew in a sharp breath and sat bolt upright. Mycroft turned around again and saw the agitated features of his brother who looked almost frightened.  
“I have to go back immediately”, Sherlock mumbled and threw back the blanket.  
“They will find out, if I stay. Oh god, what if they know already?”  
He put his legs over the edge of the mattress and pushed himself off the bed.  
“It will all have been for nothing.” 

Mycroft had rushed back to the bed, when his brother prepared to get up, and dumped glass and flannel on the table. Like this, his hands were free to catch his brother, as his knees buckled underneath him at the first step.  
“Stupid boy”, he scolded but without any venom, shoving Sherlock back onto the bed. “You’re not going anywhere in this state.”  
He tried to push him into a horizontal position, but Sherlock evaded his arm, almost frantic in his movements now, turned onto his hands and knees and started scrambling across the bed to get out on the other side.  
“No, Mycroft, you don’t understand”, he cried breathlessly.  
“I can’t be here.”  
His arms and legs were trembling with the effort of holding his body up and propelling it forward.  
“They will have new leverage now, and I will have to . . .”.  
His voice trailed off, as he finally collapsed just as he reached the edge of the bed. Mycroft had been debating whether this would happen before or after Sherlock was off the bed again, whether he could just wait or should walk around the bed to prevent his brother from escaping, if he did make it off the bed. He had chosen correctly in remaining where he was. 

Mycroft regarded his brother for a moment. He was lying still now, sprawled flat on his belly diagonally across the big bed, his curls a disheveled mess, half of his right arm hanging off the far side of the bed above his head, the other arm trapped underneath him, his long, slender legs spread apart. His pajama trousers had ridden very low on his hips during the scramble across the bed, disclosing just the beginning of the curve of Sherlock’s firm and beautifully round buttocks. Mycroft found himself suddenly wondering what it would feel like to run his hands across that pert bottom, to caress the soft skin of those pale cheeks, knead them thoroughly, kiss every part of them, spread them apart and let his tongue worship the most intimate part of his brother’s body. 

Mycroft shook himself out of his contemplation, before it could go any further. How could he think about his brother in such a way? Let alone at this moment, when he was ill and so clearly distraught? What was wrong with him? What was he supposed to do with the sudden influx of all these thoughts and feelings he should find disgusting? How rid himself of them? He would have to deal with that later, there were more immediate issues to concern himself with right now.

Without witnessing Sherlock’s hallucinations the night before, he would not have had a clue what Sherlock was talking about now or why he was so upset. As it was, Mycroft could put two and two together. Sherlock’s feverish brain had him obviously still caught up in his horrific past ordeal, believing it was his university days, thinking any contact with him would give his tormentors fresh material to pressure him for sexual services. They would pay for all they had put his brother through and in the very near future. But for now, he had to make sure Sherlock got the rest he needed. Since this fever and with it his brother’s disorientated state were likely to persist for some time, he would brief his security to make sure Sherlock could not escape from the house, should he by any chance manage to get as far as downstairs. 

Sherlock stirred again as Mycroft pulled him back across the bed and repositioned him on the mattress, drawing the blanket up to his shoulders.  
“Let me go, Mycroft, please”, he begged weakly.  
But a fresh attempt at sitting up was quickly stopped by Mycroft’s hand on his chest.  
“Sleep now, brother.”  
Sherlock gave him a pained look, then opened his mouth again, while his eyes were already drifting shut in spite of himself.  
“Leave me be, My. You . . . don’t understand.”  
Then he was finally asleep for good.  
“I think I do, brother dear”, Mycroft replied knowing Sherlock would not hear it anymore. “And I’ll take care of things, I promise.”

The next few days were filled with the same routine of getting Sherlock to take his antibiotics, enough water, tea and bits of soup, toast and crackers in between, trying to keep the still raging fever in check until the antibiotics did their work, getting the sweat soaked bedding changed, while having an eye on Sherlock in the bathroom, keeping him from falling off the toilet and putting fresh pajamas on him, and finally, keeping Sherlock securely in bed, when he woke up in one of his hallucinatory states. Mycroft involved the whole staff in the tasks, Beavers, the cleaning lady who normally came twice a week, and the two security detail, as well. He himself had arranged to be working from home until the worst had passed, so he could tend to his brother. In the end, what good were all those technical and digital possibilities for communication, if they could not compensate for his physical absence from work at least for a few days. 

Still, all these measures did not succeed in confining his brother to his bed. Time and again Mycroft was called from working in his study to collect a semi-conscious but still resisting or a completely passed out Sherlock from the floor in his bedroom, the hallway upstairs, or some other room, and put him back to bed, sitting with him, if he was still somewhat awake, until exhaustion got the better of him, which usually did not take long. Sherlock’s brain might be fever addled and could not think straight, but he was still able to put his determination to leave into action. 

Once he even got as far as the front door in his desire to escape. Mycroft received a call from Lyons, one of two security detail, when he was in his study Skype-meeting with the French minister of foreign affairs. Lyons informed him that they had apprehended his brother downstairs, as he was trying to leave the house. Mycroft sighed, frustrated with his impossible brother and his own inability to control the situation. Then he quickly ended the meeting with the minister with some excuse and the promise to get back to him shortly. Not that this meeting had been half as urgent as the French politician had made it appear. Everything always seemed urgent to ordinary people, because they could not think further than their own noses. But nothing was more urgent to Mycroft, at the moment, than sorting out his little brother. 

He went to Sherlock’s room where he had told Lyons they should bring him. He ended up having to wait for them. Was it possible Sherlock had managed to fight them off or escape apprehension? If he had actually prevailed over them in his current state, Mycroft would sack his security instantly for being utterly incompetent. He had just decided to go downstairs to see what had happened, when Page, the bigger of the two agents, came around the corner from the hallway and entered the bedroom carrying Sherlock in his arms. 

His brother was making indiscriminate noises, alternately sounding like threats and implorations. He was flailing weakly, apparently still trying to get away from the agent’s grasp, but to no avail. Page was very well muscled, tall and rather butch, he accommodated Sherlock’s lithe body easily, almost as one would carry a child. His brother’s head lolled against the security’s barrel chest, and Page’s big hand almost entirely encased Sherlock’s thin ribcage that was arching over his arm and made it appear, as if the agent’s fingers could snap his brother’s ribs in half with very little effort. 

Mycroft’s eyes were riveted to the tableau presented to his view without exactly knowing what drew him in so. Two conflicting but equally strong feelings started to take hold of him at seeing Page holding his brother. Sherlock looked so helpless in the security’s grip, so utterly caught and vulnerable, that Mycroft wanted to snatch him out of the other man’s grasp instantly, wrap him up in his embrace and comfort him and then go on to protect his perfect, precious brother for the rest of his life. 

But at the same time the complete control the security had over Sherlock’s body and the ease with which he exercised it, enthralled Mycroft. Not the idea of control as such, but the feeling of being able to wield it in a way that rendered Sherlock absolutely safe and cared for, his brother, who, because of the way he chose to live his life, would by default never be safe, while Mycroft absolutely needed him to be safe and his every need cared for. 

Suddenly Mycroft noticed that Page had been talking to him for a while, but he had not caught a single word. What was happening to him? Was the increased proximity to his brother, all the unaccustomed physical contact and the new insight into Sherlock’s past efforts to protect him really affecting him so much? That was absolutely intolerable. He needed to get a grip and fast.  
“ . . . didn’t do anything to him, sir. Your brother seemed to mistake us for somebody else and started to struggle, though.”  
Mycroft took a deep breath, then shook his head slowly putting his mask of aloofness and indifference back in place. He walked to the bed and drew the blanket back.  
“Lay him down and go back to your duties”, he drawled.  
“I will speak to you later.”  
“Sir.” The security deposited his charge on the mattress and left the room. Mycroft listened to his footsteps going through the hallway and down the stairs to the ground floor. 

Sherlock tried to roll out of bed again almost immediately after he had been set down.  
“Oh, no you won’t.”  
Mycroft quickly stepped around to the other side of the bed and pushed him back.  
“Sherlock, be reasonable, for god’s sake.”  
Instantly Mycroft scolded himself. How utterly useless to call on his brother’s rationality, when he was not even lucid. And Sherlock often did not act in a reasonable manner even in normal circumstances.  
“Mycroft, please, just let me go”.  
His brother pleaded in the same way he had been pleading repeatedly these past couple of days. And like all the times before, he kept struggling against his confinement. Mycroft groaned. He was getting tired of this. Sherlock would wear himself out eventually, but it would weaken him more and draw out his recovery process. And he needed to go talk to Page and get back to the French minister for foreign affairs and Christ, there must be a better way to do this. 

It was time for a change of tactics.  
“Okay, Sherlock, if you really want to go back to campus now, I will help you.”  
Sherlock froze, then threw him a careful glance.  
“You will? You’ll let me leave? Now?”  
He clearly did not believe him.  
“Yes, I think you made your point perfectly clear these past days,” Mycroft replied.  
“I’ll have my driver prepare a car right now, and I’ll assist you getting dressed.”  
He made a short pause and smiled at his brother sincerely.  
“But first you must take your medicine and eat a bit of soup at least.”  
Sherlock scowled, but Mycroft simply continued.  
“You will need your strength, you’re very weak.”  
When Sherlock was still silent, he added:  
“This is not open for debate.”  
Finally, his brother nodded.  
“Okay”, he said quietly.  
“But you’re not coming on the campus.”  
“No. Good, that’s settled then. I’ll go and fetch the soup.” 

Mycroft had no intention to let his brother leave, of course, and the fact that Sherlock apparently fell for his ruse, was more proof - had he needed any – just how out of it his brother was. If he was very lucky, Sherlock would have succumbed to exhaustion already, when he returned with soup and medication. But Mycroft did not count on such luck. The antibiotics would make him drowsy, too, and eating would tire him out some more. Finally, if his brother was not yet dead on his feet after he had put on his clothes, Mycroft would devise some additional exertion on the way to the car and have his driver simply keep going until his brother would eventually sink into Morpheus’ arms. 

As it turned out, Sherlock made it through the soup and the beginning of getting dressed. He was sitting on the side of the bed slightly slumped, eyelids drooping and head starting to sink to his chest, as Mycroft put socks on his feet deliberately slowly. Then he sat next to his brother on the bed.  
“Now take off your pajamas. I brought you a fresh T-shirt and Jeans to put on.”  
Mycroft was watching Sherlock closely, as he struggled to straighten up again and get his arms to cooperate with a frustrated huff. He chuckled quietly. Poor, stubborn little brother. Just give in for once. It will all be fine.  
“Sherlock, are you still with me?”  
Mycroft whispered trying to keep his amusement out of his voice.  
“Need help with that pajama?” 

Instead of an answer Sherlock’s torso slowly tilted sideways more and more, until it landed in his brother’s lap. Mycroft supported his brother’s head with one arm and slung the other carefully around his waist, cradling him to his chest like this and gently starting to rock him. He listened to his breathing growing deeper, felt him slowly start to relax. Mycroft bent down and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.  
“Don’t go to sleep, little brother,” he whispered in his ear.  
“Things to do, places to be.”  
And then, after a few minutes of silent cradling and rocking, Sherlock had finally surrendered to sleep, as he lay, perfectly still and relaxed, in his brother’s arms.


	2. Stop running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fever is finally gone. But it has left the brothers to deal with the aftermath of the secrets revealed through hallucinations and renewed proximity. How will they choose to deal with it?

When the antibiotics had finally run their course after several days, they battled the infection successfully and the fever eventually abated. But, as Mycroft had feared, the whole process left Sherlock weak as a newborn kitten, hardly able to hold a cup of tea on his own or stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. Fortunately, this meant his brother also lacked the energy to take out his annoyance at his uncooperative body on Mycroft or his staff. Mostly, Sherlock lacked the energy to even be annoyed or stroppy or any of those other states his brother liked to work himself into, when things did not go his way – or not as quickly and completely as he wanted them to.

Still, Mycroft thought his brother was behaving in an uncharacteristically compliant and docile manner – even when he was not asleep – it was almost uncanny. Was that really just a side effect of his exhaustion? Or was it a strategy to get him off his back so he would be able to give him the slip as soon as his legs carried him as far as the front door? It was not like his brother to behave in such a subdued manner. 

Then, there was the way Sherlock looked at him at times since he had his lucidity back. Searching, calculating glances, probably trying to deduce each detail of what had happened during the days his mind had lost to the fever or was giving him a hard time do decide what had been real and what hallucination. Trying to deduce what he had said or done that he would rather his brother did not know. But there was confusion visible in his eyes, too, as his brother’s gaze grew veiled and distanced sometimes, and something else - fear?

Of course, Sherlock would never ask what had happened straight and simple. He was much too stubborn for that and possibly felt embarrassed, as well, for being so weak and having been seen to be so, as unreasonable as that was. The impression of being strangely subdued did not come from Sherlock being polite to those tending to him at the moment, either. Sherlock was hardly ever polite. Rather, the impression was created by the fact that his brother did not say anything at all at first, after he had woken up clearheaded again. He would just take the tea, juice, soup, or toast that was given to him and then go back to sleep again or busy himself with his phone or laptop until his eyes fell closed of their own accord. Demanding to be given his phone and laptop was in fact the one thing Sherlock had uttered so far. 

That was why Mycroft felt almost relieved, when, on the third day after the fever was gone, he heard his brother shouting from the bedroom, as he entered his townhouse in the evening. It was not quite shouting, Sherlock lacked the strength for that. But it was closer to normal than anything Mycroft had observed from his brother in the last couple of days, anyhow. It did not astonish him that Sherlock’s yelling was directed at the nurse, whose voice could be heard as well, even though it was softer and sounded somewhat – condescending. Uh oh, not good. 

He had been aware that hiring a nurse for Sherlock’s process of reconvalescence was potentially a bad idea. Sherlock hated anything and everything do to with hospitals, because he hated being ill, being weak, not being in control, and being told what to do, all things he associated with hospitals and healthcare personnel. But Mycroft had had no choice. He had needed to go back to the office at some stage, at least for a couple of hours every day. There was only so much work one could do from home, for example it just would not do to have the prime minister meet him at his house. Mycroft’s was officially a minor position in the British government after all. And he would not have wanted the head of any government in his home with Sherlock in the house, not even with Sherlock asleep. But he could not leave his brother’s care in the hands of Beavers and his security personnel. For his own peace of mind Mycroft needed there to be qualified professional medical care, while he was absent. 

Mycroft handed his coat and umbrella to Beavers, who had met him in the entrance hall. He gave him a questioning look.  
“Master Sherlock does not take well to the nurse, as was to be expected. But this is the first time he has been shouting at the man.”  
“Well, that’s a good sign, then”, Mycroft replied.   
“He must start feeling better.”   
The argument upstairs was still ongoing. Sherlock sounded annoyed, but there was anxiety laced into his voice, too. The nurse’s tone was still professionally friendly – and still condescending. The butler looked worriedly at Mycroft.  
“You ought to go to him, sir; before your brother bites the nurse’s head off.”   
Mycroft offered him a small smile.   
“Fortunately for the man, my brother is in no state to accomplish such a feat just yet.”

When Mycroft silently entered the bedroom, Sherlock was breathing heavily, perching on the edge of the bed on the far side from where the nurse was currently standing holding a flannel in his hand and being glowered at by his patient.   
“Mister Holmes, really, it’s no big deal. Let me just give you a quick wash down and change your pajamas.”  
“No.”  
“But you want to be clean. Come on, you’ll feel better.”  
“Leave me alone.”  
“You really don’t have to be embarrassed, Mister Holmes. It is my job.”   
The nurse tried again sounding more and more exasperated at the seeming petulance of his patient. Sherlock remained where he was, scowling.   
“Why should I be embarrassed? Now, piss off.” 

Neither of the two men had noticed Mycroft yet, who was standing at the door simply observing. His brother’s body was tense, fists clenched in the sheets, jaw tight. His appearance was not that of his regular stroppiness, although he seemed to be aiming for that. He looked anxious, scared even. Mycroft was able to see this from the door. But the nurse, much closer, apparently did not notice anything, idiot that he was. Were medical personnel not supposed to be familiar with body language, so they could gauge the moods even of nonverbal patients? 

The nurse, a fairly tall, strongly built fellow, took a few big steps around the bed towards his patient, and Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. Mycroft had hired a male nurse of adequate physique with the idea that this person had to be able to lift his brother up, if the need arose. This reasoning was about to backfire now, it seemed. Do not try to corner him, he thought. 

But before the nurse could do any such thing, Sherlock had scrambled back to the other side of the bed. The nurse instantly turned and with two quick steps was closing in on him. In his reduced state, his brother was not fast or agile enough to outmaneuver the nurse.   
“Don’t touch me, don’t you dare.”   
Sherlock hissed between gritted teeth. But the nurse reached out to Sherlock’s face with his flannelled hand anyway, though slowly at least.   
“Mister Holmes, stop behaving like such a child”, the man said, the end of his patience quickly approaching.   
“Just let me do my job and stop making such a fuss over nothing.”

Instead, Sherlock recoiled from the man’s hand as far as he could in the bed, curled up into a fetal position, and started making tiny whimpering noises. Mycroft had watched the unfolding drama in wonder and with growing concern. This went far beyond his brother’s normal antics, and the nurse’s utter lack of common sense only aggravated the situation.   
“Don’t”, Mycroft demanded finally stepping into the room as the nurse attempted to pry Sherlock’s arms away that he had wrapped around his head protectively.   
“I will take it from here.”   
And with a look at the nurse that suggested it was not really a choice, he added:   
“You may leave the room. I suggest you take a break now. I will join you in the kitchen shortly.”   
It went unmentioned but was understood nevertheless that there would be a conversation then. After the nurse had left, Mycroft held the flannel out to Sherlock, who uncurled slowly, as Mycroft took the position of the nurse at his bedside. 

Sherlock washed his face in silence, looking slightly dazed, while Mycroft went to fetch fresh pajamas for him from the drawer. Then they proceeded with the sponge bath and change of clothes. Mycroft was very careful to keep his distance as much as he could, giving Sherlock space and privacy, and only helping him when absolutely necessary, because the altercation with the nurse had pretty much drained Sherlock of his energy. The whole process went on in silence, but his brother relaxed noticeably after a while, even if he still remained somewhat tense, shooting listless glances in the direction of the door. 

Although Sherlock’s display, when the nurse had tried to wash him, greatly disturbed him, Mycroft did not think it was the right moment to discuss it with him. He chose a different strategy to defuse the tension.   
“I will be taking a small supper in the library now and look over some reports I brought from the office. Why don’t you join me?”   
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.   
“Oh, come on, you must be getting cabin fever by now, having been cooped up in this bedroom for so long. Bit of a change in scenery might help your recovery.” 

Sherlock shrugged at that, as if he did not care one way or another. But Mycroft was not fooled; he had seen his brother’s eyes light up momentarily at the mention of leaving the room.   
“The nurse forbade me to get up”, he grumbled.   
“But he’s an idiot.”  
“Well, he may not live up to your standards, but I agree with his appraisal of the situation in this.”   
Sherlock’s face grew dark.  
“I’m not in the mood for your teasing, Mycroft. You don’t have to rub it in.”   
He turned away and whispered:   
“Just go away then and enjoy your supper.” 

Mycroft noticed that he did not add one of his much favoured cake-comments.  
“You misunderstand me, brother mine”, he answered, gently laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder to turn him back and face him.   
He noted with some satisfaction that Sherlock did not flinch or move away from his touch as he had done with the nurse.   
“I agree with the nurse that you are too weak to be up and skulking around yet. But I had no intention of letting you walk.”   
Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. Mycroft gazed back smugly.   
“I got the opportunity to gain quite some practical experience in carrying you around the house this past week, as you were rather determined to leave most of the time. You may not remember much of it.”  
“The nurse . . .”  
“Has only been here for two days now. It was just me before.”

Sherlock seemed to try and compare this information to his own rather sketchy and nebulous recollection of events during his fever. Mycroft took the opportunity to call on Beavers and instruct him to put some bedding on the sofa in the library and prepare a light supper for his brother and him. When he came back to Sherlock’s side, his brother looked doubtful. Mycroft gave him a genuine smile.   
“Just relax, little brother, I’ll get you there.” 

He bent towards him, slid one arm around his back, the other under his knees.   
“Put your arms around my neck, it will be more comfortable for you this way.”   
After a second’s hesitation Sherlock laid his long arms loosely around his brother’s neck, as Mycroft scooped him up.  
“You really must start eating more”, he said lightly.   
“You barely weigh anything.”   
He began walking towards the door of the bedroom. Their eyes met.   
“It’s okay. No reason to feel awkward,” Mycroft reassured him, when he saw his brother’s look.   
“I don’t”, Sherlock answered softly.   
“I simply remembered.” 

Mycroft followed Sherlock’s train of thought.  
“You were eleven. I was home from university for the holidays.”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“You broke your leg falling down the slope into the river bordering on our premises. Had been trying to catch some sort of frog or toad or something and hadn’t paid attention. I pulled you out of the water and carried you back to the house.”   
Mycroft remembered the wet, trembling, scared boy snuggling up into his chest. That was the last time his brother had been in his arms like this preceding his current illness. He had not thought Sherlock would remember at all, since he tended to ‘delete’ irrelevant knowledge from his mind. 

While he had been talking, Sherlock had laid his head against Mycroft’s shoulder, relaxing further.   
“It felt . . . .”   
Sherlock was searching for the right word.   
“Safe”, he finally said slowly as if he had just made an unexpected discovery.   
“As you are now, brother dear, as you are now”, Mycroft whispered, not wanting to disrupt the moment’s mood. 

Walking through the hallway he suddenly felt the weight of Sherlock’s head grow heavier against his shoulder and his left hand slowly slide down his neck to his chest, limp fingers brushing his skin.   
“Sherlock?” he voiced very quietly.   
There was no reply. Mycroft stopped for a moment, listening and looking down on himself. Sherlock’s features were completely relaxed now, and only soft, even breathing could be heard. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread throughout Mycroft’s belly then, as he pondered the fact that his brother had just fallen asleep being carried in his arms, the fact that apparently Sherlock trusted him enough to completely give up control to him and allow himself to be taken care of. Mycroft, at that moment, prided himself on being the only person in the world Sherlock would willingly relinquish control to. His current exhaustion might have played a part in this outcome. But Sherlock had not fought it; he had instead gone down willingly and without protest.

Sherlock spent the following days in the library sleeping on the sofa. His mood lightened up considerably, Mycroft supposed because he could feel almost normal again sitting in one of the armchairs reading or at the desk doing research and corresponding with clients online. He was supposed to let the nurse or one of the staff help him move from one spot to the other or fetch him books from the shelves. But of course, he did not heed that. Mycroft had not expected he would. 

Therefore, he was not surprised, that – whenever he came in from work between meetings and in the evening – he might find his brother asleep slumped over at the desk or on the floor resting against some bookshelves; stupid, adorable boy. After the incident with the sponge bath, the nurse and all the staff had received instructions not to touch his brother except with Sherlock’s express permission or in case of emergency. So, he was left where he happened to doze off for Mycroft to find and deal with. He was still very weak and needed lots of rest, which Mycroft knew annoyed his brother to no end and which Sherlock would consequently proceed to just ignore to the best of his ability. But since – excepting Mycroft - he would not let anyone near himself, the hired nurse had no use any more and was speedily let go again. 

The fact that Sherlock’s sleep was interrupted by frequent nightmares, did not favor a swift recovery, either. Mycroft knew they still persisted, even after the fever. He witnessed them as he spent his evenings working or reading after dinner in the library, while Sherlock rested on the sofa with a book or his laptop. Every time his brother fell asleep, they would soon start. They were always about Sebastian and his cronies and what they had done to Sherlock, as far as Mycroft could tell from the incoherent ramblings of his brother. And they were horrific, judging from the amount of screaming and thrashing that went on while they lasted. The good thing about them, from Mycroft’s perspective, was that he could glean more information and a clearer picture of what his brother had suffered at the hands of those villains. It did wonders to his motivation to get his hands on that Sebastian fellow and his mates and spurn on his employees to dig out more about them and do it faster. 

It had not been hard to find a Sebastian who had been at the university at the same time Sherlock had and could have known him. Actually, he had found two students of that name who fitted the bill. But he was already 95% sure which was the right one and had set his minions onto following up the details of his life from university to the present day: professional enterprises and connections, social and private activities and interests, friends, lovers, family. Everything on him and his closest companions at the time specified for Sherlock’s abuse. Everything there was to get a clear angle on the man, everything he could use to bring him down and bring him down for good. He was almost ready. There was just confirmation on one or two things he still needed now, the information whether Sherlock was currently in contact with him and in what capacity - and a good opportunity to strike. 

Apart from the nightmares Mycroft really enjoyed the time he was able to spend with his brother. Their shared meals, even though Sherlock still ate deplorably little; their conversations about the effects of different kinds of poisons and their usefulness in committing a murder or about beekeeping that Sherlock had found an old book on in one of the shelves; their games of deduction and chess. 

He was sure his brother liked their intensified interactions, as well. His gaze was still wary at times, of course, and he seemed not to be entirely comfortable. He never spoke about the contents of his nightmares or whether he remembered anything about his hallucinations. Mycroft, on the other hand, was certainly not as stupid as to bring up the topic himself. But Sherlock had stopped trying to leave or mention that he had to go back to his place because of an experiment, that there was a case that he absolutely needed to leave the house for or that DI Lestrade had requested his assistance at a crime scene urgently. And his brother had all but dropped the persona he had adopted so thoroughly in his presence those recent years and that Mycroft had now learnt the reason for. Instead – if only around him - he had reverted back to his affectionate, playful, sparkling self that Mycroft had loved and missed so much in his brother. 

There was a downside to their renewed closeness, though. Mycroft experienced growing difficulties to ignore and deny that his feelings for Sherlock were much more than what society would still accept as brotherly. He was in love with his little brother, had been for so long and on so many levels, and the increased proximity over the last couple of weeks had rekindled the physical side of his attraction, too. He wanted Sherlock in every way that was even possible. 

Every time he watched him talk about anything at all, his bright eyes, his full lips, his eloquent facial expressions and small gestures, performed so elegantly with those long, slender fingers, he wanted to smash his lips to Sherlock’s and devour his mouth, run his hands through his silky curls that maddeningly kept falling over his eyes when Sherlock moved his head in a certain way. When he looked at his brother sleeping, head turned to the side, his long neck - bared and stretched beautifully - seemed to invite Mycroft’s lips to caress, to lick, to mark as his. 

Even during his nightmares, when Mycroft’s focus should have lain solely on calming and comforting him, he often found his intentions to be of a much more carnal sort, as he observed Sherlock’s back arching off the sofa, his hands fisting the sheets and his head pressing into the cushions. He felt such desire to be with his brother, such need, as he had never known. 

Even when Sherlock just smiled at him over a board game or leaned on him, when he was tired and Mycroft supported him back to the sofa to lie down, his body responded with arousal and it got harder to hide this fact from Sherlock. The only respite Mycroft got was when he was at work and away from the house, but even then, his thoughts would often wander to his brother. So, to counteract this, Mycroft tried to direct all Sherlock-centered activities of his mind into advancing the downfall of his abusers. 

After a few days spent with this routine in the library, Sherlock had started regaining some of his strength, although the slowness of the process probably felt unbearable to his impatient brother. When Mycroft came home one evening he found Sherlock lying on his belly on the floor of the library, propped up on his elbows, head in his hands, completely engrossed in a book that lay open in front of him. For a moment, the elder brother thought he had stepped back in time and into the library of their childhood home. Sherlock looked so much like the sweet boy Mycroft still saw and cherished in him lying there totally carefree and oblivious of his surroundings. He almost went up to him and ruffled his curls. 

“So, you found a book that you haven’t read yet?”   
Sherlock turned around beaming at him.  
“Mycroft”, he shouted excitedly.   
“You’ve got to have a look at this.”   
Sherlock was pointing at something in his book. Just as an amused smile was creeping across the elder brother’s face at his boyish excitement, Sherlock jumped up and came striding towards him, running almost. Too much, too fast.  
“Sherlock, don’t.”   
The warning was on his lips, but Sherlock had already stopped in his tracks, hands shooting up to his temples, he was swaying dangerously. Then he started crumbling to the floor. 

Mycroft caught him, before he could hit the ground. Arms slung around his brother’s middle to steady him, while they waited out his dizzy spell, Mycroft felt they were standing entirely too close.  
“Always so reckless, brother mine”, he chided sounding far too gentle.   
“Not at all”, his brother breathed between two inhales.   
“No?”   
Mycroft guided them over to the sofa and sat his brother down. Sherlock actually managed a smirk.  
“I knew you were there to catch me, if I fell.”  
“So that’s how you see me now”, Mycroft teased back.   
“As your own personal safety net.”  
“Once I was sure you would always be there to save me. No tree I could fall down from, that you would not stand under.” 

Sherlock’s voice had grown serious, and he looked away. Mycroft swallowed hard.  
“And I shall always do my utmost to be there, dearest brother.”   
There was a silence, then Mycroft continued:   
“Why don’t you rest a bit now, while I have dinner prepared.”   
But Sherlock did not lie down.   
“I want to take a bath. I’m fed up with sponge baths. Will you help me? I still feel a bit faint.” He looked innocently at his brother.   
“Please?”   
Mycroft did not relent.  
“Food first. Then we’ll see.”  
“Tedious”, Sherlock gave back, accompanied by the most adorable pout, Mycroft thought.

Sherlock looked glad he could wash himself thoroughly and in privacy for once and soaked happily in the bathtub. Mycroft only looked in on him from time to time. He knew Sherlock must be tired by now, and he did not want him to fall asleep in the tub. After a while, Mycroft noticed his brother had a hard time staying awake. He saw his chance then to ascertain the confirmation on Sebastian’s identity and the current status of his relations with Sherlock. Between wakefulness and sleep, his brother’s guard was lowered; he knew and had used this fact to his advantage several times in the past. Sherlock might not even remember much of their conversation later. At any rate, Mycroft could always deny the conversation had ever happened and say he had probably dreamt it all.

He went into the bathroom and stood at the edge of the tub.  
“You’re tired. Let’s just wash your hair and then get you back to bed.”  
“So boring”, Sherlock grumbled.   
“Yes, well, your body is setting the pace at the moment, so just go with it.”   
He put shampoo on his brother’s curls and started slow massaging movements across his scalp.   
“Oh, by the way, Sherlock, one of my secretaries mentioned to me the other day that a colleague of hers knows a fellow student of yours in Cambridge.”   
He began inconspicuously.  
“Hm”, Sherlock hummed, relaxing into his touch and probably only half listening.   
Although he was certainly aware that Mycroft, just like him, did not make small talk.   
“Turned out that colleague of hers works for the government as well.”   
Slight pause.   
“Used to be the PA of my boss a while back, before I got another round of promotions.” 

Sherlock only made another humming noise, but Mycroft noticed his breathing pick up for a moment. He had his attention now.   
“The name Sebastian Wilkes ring any bells?”   
The reaction was instant. His brother’s body tensed momentarily, and in his expression Mycroft could read the same terror and disgust he had seen during his hallucinations. It was gone again in a glimpse, as Sherlock’s controls took hold of his body language again. But it was enough for Mycroft; final proof that his people had found the correct Sebastian. 

At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach out to Sherlock, take him into his arms and comfort him. Instead he went on sounding very conversational.   
“Was he in the same year as you? I don’t think you ever mentioned him.”   
Sherlock finally looked at him, a studiously bored expression on his face.  
“He was a year above me, I think; studied economics and finance; roommate of somebody from my chemistry course during second year. We did not socialize, though.”   
Indeed, Mycroft thought.   
“Ever heard of him again, since university?” 

Mycroft was almost sure there had been some recent contact between his brother and Sebastian. A couple of days ago he had noticed Sherlock receive an email and seem completely shaken after reading it. There were very few things that would have this effect on his brother. But when Mycroft had remarked on it, he had shut down immediately.   
“No, never. Why should I? You know I did not make friends at university.”   
Sherlock’s response was too quick and too dismissive.   
“I need to sleep now, Mycroft.”   
And that was the end of this conversation. But his brother had told him enough. Don’t you worry, Mycroft thought. Just leave things to me now with – Sebastian. 

Mycroft rinsed the shampoo out of Sherlock’s hair, then went to Sherlock’s bedroom adjoining the bath, spread a towel on the bed, and lay another one on the bedside table. Returning to the bathroom he was just in time to see the black mop of his brother’s hair disappear under the surface line of the water. He jumped, quickly grabbed Sherlock under his armpits and pulled him up, water running off from his hair and face.   
“Sherlock?”   
Mycroft tried hard not to sound panicked.   
“Sherlock, are you with me?”   
And he slapped him on his back. Sherlock sucked in a breath coming back to himself and coughed.   
“For god’s sake, brother, you’re not going to drown on me here?”   
Sherlock had regained his breath by now and looked up at Mycroft, confused.  
“I ... what?”   
But it was no use, as sleep was already reclaiming him. He was only semi-aware when Mycroft hauled him out of the tub, and Mycroft felt him grow progressively more limp in his arms on the way to the bed.

Everything was still fine, until Mycroft looked down at his brother’s body again after toweling him dry. But when he saw Sherlock there, spread out before him on the bed, the vast expanse of unblemished pale skin, slightly flushed and almost glowing, just inches away from his fingertips, it was so easy for him to imagine the flush to come from arousal and not from the heat of the bathwater. Sherlock’s body seemed simply to be begging to be caressed, completely at his disposal to do with as he pleased. 

Mycroft’s hands were suddenly moving of their own accord. They roamed first across his brother’s chest feeling his strong, regular heartbeat. Then Mycroft’s fingers ran down Sherlock’s sides, which elicited delightful little shivers in the body in front of him. The hands continued their explorations past the jutting hipbones down long slender legs resting to one side, slightly bent at the knees; then up the lissome thighs again, just hovering over his brother’s crotch a moment without touching until they moved on and eventually ended up back over his pectorals. 

Sherlock had not stirred so far, consciousness buried in deep slumber. There was nothing to stop Mycroft’s hands, as they were finally able to touch to their utmost desire; certainly, his mind was not going to stop them at the moment, since it appeared to have currently blanked out. His right hand was now sliding up Sherlock’s throat, encircling it lightly, middle finger lying over the pulse point, thumb stroking his brother’s jaw line. His left – after brushing an errant wet curl out of his forehead – slowly glided across Sherlock’s shoulder and further along to find its hold around his biceps. 

With his brother’s bare neck exposed like this, Mycroft’s lips now could not but join in the ministrations, bestowing the tenderest kisses on Sherlock’s shoulder, soft breath against warm skin. Mycroft inhaled Sherlock’s scent, smelling of lavender after the bath and something completely and intoxicatingly Sherlock. 

When Mycroft’s mouth reached the edge of his brother’s jaw and began ever so carefully making its way across his cheek, there was finally a reaction from the body, that had been assaulted with such caresses. A soft moan, then a slight turn of the head; and suddenly, just like that, the two brothers’ lips met for the first time, gentle but firm pressure meeting soft and pliant response. At first it was utter bliss. The way those full lips felt beneath his, the way Sherlock parted them so sweetly to the gentle prompting of his tongue, his brother’s breath intermingling with his own, as he started exploring his mouth almost reverently, then grew bolder in his movements and simultaneously ran his right hand down Sherlock’s flat belly to cup his groin. He felt Sherlock shiver beneath his touch as his legs fell open. 

It was an invitation, and Mycroft reveled in this notion, wanting to finally end the constant, aching longing and give in to his urge to join their bodies, to be so close, to own his brother’s body, to own his brother. There still was the nagging voice in the back of his head that this was absolutely wrong and would end in certain disaster. But it was all but drowned out now by his own heartbeat resounding in his head.

Sherlock wanted him, too. It was more than the affection his brother had started showing toward him these last days. He had surrendered himself completely to his care even during the bath, given himself over to him to the extent of dozing off naked and all warm and wet and delicious being held against his chest; he had made clear his final consent to this by responding positively to his physical advances. 

The images of his brother reciprocating his feelings, his desire, heightened Mycroft’s arousal even more. His cock had been hard for a while already, there was a damp spot growing on his briefs, that his cock had started to throb against uncomfortably. He palmed it through his trousers for a moment to relieve some of the pressure that had built, then went back to brush his fingers over Sherlock’s shaft. 

That is when his mind finally landed back in reality again, hard. His brother’s cock was totally flaccid; there was not even a hint of an erection discernible. He stopped kissing him and drew back his hands from his body. Sherlock’s mouth remained slightly open as he left it, but he lay there completely still, not even a finger twitching, his eyes stayed closed, breathing deep and even. Mycroft touched his fingers to his brother’s wrist to feel that his heart rate was not elevated. 

Sherlock was deeply asleep, to all means and purposes dead to the world and had been throughout Mycroft’s kisses and caresses. There had just been some unconscious physical reactions to his ministrations, that Mycroft’s dazed brain had then made into active responses of an aware and willing mind. The same brain that had had him convinced, a moment ago, that passing out in the bathtub was a conscious act of consent to sexual intercourse and not simply a sign of deep trust on the side of his brother. 

Mycroft took a couple of long breaths to steady his reeling thoughts. What had just come over him? What had he done? After the horrible acts Sherlock had had done to him at university, had endured for his sake, he had still managed to trust someone – his big brother – enough to let himself really relax for once, knowing well that would put him completely at his mercy, while he was still so weak. That must have been incredibly hard for Sherlock, for whom it was absolutely paramount to always be in control. Mycroft knew this, and still he had gone and betrayed his brother’s trust, abused him in a disgusting manner, just because he apparently was unable to keep his physical urges in check. 

How abhorrently shameful. If he had not come back to his senses just in time, he would have ravished his brother, he almost had. And somewhere in his subconscious he had known what he was doing all along. Why else would he have so judiciously avoided touching Sherlock’s nipples and applying his tongue to more parts of his body, if not because the sensations would have likely woken him up. He had known Sherlock had not consented to any of this, and he had not cared, as long as he could just satisfy his need. 

He was no better than Sebastian and his gang of rapists he was so bent on punishing. He was even worse, because he had taken away the only safe space Sherlock still counted on having. He had to leave immediately, put space between himself and his brother, cut out any danger of himself losing control like this again. If Sherlock looked at him anytime soon, he would deduce what had happened, and that would destroy their relationship for good. Mycroft took another look at his peacefully sleeping brother. That peace would be destroyed, and that must not happen. He quickly threw the blanket haphazardly across Sherlock’s form and fled from the room. 

The strategy of simply running away and keeping the object of his forbidden attraction out of his range worked for Mycroft exactly until late afternoon of the following day. That is when his phone rang, and the caller ID showed it was from his security at the house. Mycroft had not gone back to his brother’s room after he had left it the previous evening, although they had been used now to sharing breakfast early in the morning, and most days he would have stopped by for a short lunch break. Both of which Mycroft had avoided today. 

He had informed Beavers some very urgent business had come up that he had to attend to personally and that might keep him away from home for one or two days. He had instructed the Butler to relay this news to his brother and see to his meals. Such things occurred regularly, and Sherlock knew this. Therefore, the story was absolutely credible. But Page or Lyons calling him directly at work and not Anthea, his PA, meant trouble at the house. And that could only mean a Sherlock emergency. His brother just tended to be too clever for his own good.

So, to spare himself any long winding excuses for disturbing him from the security agent calling, Mycroft cut straight to the point after acknowledging Page on the phone.  
“What has my brother done?”   
Page did not seem fazed by this start of the conversation. Good man.   
“He’s leaving the house, sir”, the agent responded just as curtly.   
“Won’t be dissuaded from it by your butler or us.”   
“Did anything happen?” 

Mycroft did not think Sherlock would just take the first opportunity he was absent for more than a few hours to disappear. And even if he did, he would do it in a planned manner and that meant with stealth, not by trying to shoulder his way past two big, well trained security agents.   
“Nothing, sir, he appeared in the entrance hall twenty minutes ago intending to leave. When I intervened, and explained we had orders from you to keep him inside, he stated those orders were no longer valid. I told him I would have to check that with you and to please wait, until I had your okay.”  
“My orders have not changed.”  
“I know that, sir.”  
“Did my brother agree to wait?” 

Sherlock had to know security was instructed not to let him go, Mycroft was sure. Why would he think he had changed that? Then again, according to Page, he had said Mycroft’s orders were no longer valid, not that he thought he had changed them. What was he playing at?  
“I don’t think he’s waiting”, Page went on.  
“Rather, he doesn’t quite want to try and tackle Lyons and me.”   
There was a short pause from Page, before he went on warily: “At least, not if he can find another way to get out.”  
“Which he won’t.” 

It was a statement, not a question, Page was sure to notice. And he would recognize it as the veiled threat it was. But there really was no way of leaving the house unnoticed. Surveillance and security measures had been upped these last days to ensure not only that nobody could enter the house uninvited, but also that nobody could sneak out.   
“Where is he now?”  
“He withdrew to his room. But sir, when your brother finds that there is no other option than to get past Lyons and me, he is sure to try again. He seemed quite agitated and rather determined to leave.” 

Where did this sudden renewed vigorous intention to get away from him come from? Mycroft tried to ignore the pang of hurt he felt in his chest. Sherlock had seemed well enough at ease in his presence these last days. Could he have misread him so thoroughly? Then again, his brother had appeared somewhat imbalanced mentally since his fever, seemingly attacked and sometimes overwhelmed by strong emotions that he normally kept himself tightly closed off from, migrating back and forth between childlike carefreeness, terror, and boiling anger, relaxing in Mycroft’s physical proximity one moment, maybe even craving it, but then almost flying into a panic attack, if the nurse or anybody else even got close. 

If Mycroft’s theory was correct and the recent resurfacing of Sebastian in Sherlock’s life, together with the fever, had succeeded in blasting the doors to the hidden memories of his brother’s abuse, then it would not be astonishing that Sherlock was overwhelmed. He barely knew how to deal with lesser kinds of emotions. His mind was in no way equipped to deal with the fallout of such atrocious experiences, even more when he had had them locked away for several years. 

At that moment, recognition dawned on the elder brother. Sherlock had apparently started to see him as a sort of emotional stabilizer. He had told him as much when he had talked about feeling safe or Mycroft catching him, although he might not be aware of it himself. Now, of course, with this change in their recently established routine Mycroft had made because of his own need to put space between himself and Sherlock, he had ruptured the tenuous anchoring link his brother had been able to establish and thrown him back to the maelstrom of all his unacknowledged emotions. He had thought his story of his absence because of urgent business was credible enough, but of course, Sherlock would not buy it. 

While Mycroft was turning these thoughts in his mind, he had already put on his coat and signaled Anthea to have a car ready. Sherlock would try to get past the security, and he might just be desperate or distraught enough to take his chances in a fight. He focused back on the call.   
“I’ll be over in about 10 minutes. Try to dissuade him from leaving, until I’m there.”  
“And if we do not succeed? Do we still keep him inside?”   
Page did not mince his words, Mycroft really liked the man.   
“No.”  
That would end up in disaster.  
“Let him leave, and one of you follow him unnoticed.”   
He just hoped he would arrive while Sherlock was still there.

When he walked through the door of his townhouse, he entered the middle of a glaring match between Page and Lyons, standing close to the entrance in the hall, and Sherlock on the steps midway down the staircase from the upper floor, a few meters away from them. Sherlock was dressed and ready to go in black jeans, a dark blue button down shirt, and trainers. But he did not look any healthier than in the pajamas Mycroft had seen him wearing for the last two weeks; pale and thin and slightly trembling, although that could have been from anger, too, which seemed to be radiating off him. 

The two security agents nodded towards their boss, but if he had thought Sherlock would acknowledge his presence, he was mistaken.   
“Get out of my way”, Sherlock demanded, still staring at Page and Lyons.   
“I don’t need your permission to leave or have to tell you where I’m going. Move!”   
Lyons made to answer, but Mycroft held up his hand.   
“Sherlock”, he spoke calmly trying to catch his brother’s gaze, “you misdirect your anger.” 

Finally, Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft had expected the rage, but not the hurt he saw in his brother’s eyes.   
“Why would you do that, Mycroft?”   
His tone had changed. He sounded lost. Why did he sound lost?   
“Do what?”  
“Why would you humiliate me like this?”   
What was his brother talking about? Mycroft’s mind flashed him a picture of himself with his mouth on the neck of a naked, passed out Sherlock. But that did not fit.   
“Sherlock, I don’t . . .” 

But his brother already continued.   
“Why couldn’t you just let me slip quietly out of your life again? Do you hate me so much?”  
“Hate you?”   
Mycroft tried not to let the alarm he felt show in his voice.   
“Brother mine, you speak in riddles.”   
At this Sherlock scowled and tensed.   
“Oh, do I, brother dear, do I?” He spat coming down two steps towards him, then stopping again, almost looming over him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw Page slowly changing his stance, ready to jump into action. He shook his head minutely, without looking, and hoped that was enough for Page to catch his meaning. If he so much as glanced at the man, Sherlock would notice and become aware of Page’s intention. 

“You want to ridicule me some more in front of your minions, yes?”   
Sherlock went on almost screaming now and gripping the barristers so hard, the knuckles of his right hand were white.   
“Well, alright, I’ll spell it out for you and everybody else. You cannot hide that I repel you, brother, don’t deny it. You think my weakness and dependency disgusting, the fact that you had to tend to my sick body, wash me and feed me, is abhorrent to you. Your repulsion is so strong by now, that you could not even stand to put clothes on me again yesterday after you apparently had to haul my naked arse out of the tub, because I fell asleep on you. And now your skin will crawl when you’re even in the same room with me. Sherlock, pathetic, embarrassing idiot brother that I am.” 

Mycroft froze listening to his brother’s self-deprecating rant. His chest ached and his throat felt constricted and made breathing hard for him as he heard, what his brother thought of his feelings towards him. He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity that the feelings Sherlock had deduced as the reason for his behaviour were actually opposite to those, that had really caused his actions. 

His brother was not finished yet.   
“And to make my humiliation complete, you make it impossible for me to end this situation which is tormenting for both of us, by keeping me here but refusing to come into my presence, thus constantly reminding me how much I disgust you, constantly taunting me.”   
He was panting now.   
“What have I done to you, Mycroft?”   
Sherlock asked brokenly.   
“I must have done something horrible, while I was out of my mind with fever. I must have said something.”   
He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Mycroft now.   
“I must have let something slip. There were these dreams, there was . . .”   
He trailed off blinking several times. 

Mycroft cautiously took a step towards him.  
“Sherlock”, he said very gently, very calmly.   
“What you think about my sentiments with regard to you, could not be further from the truth.” His brother had closed his eyes and was still breathing hard. Mycroft took another step towards him standing at the bottom of the stairs now, Sherlock a few steps up.   
“Look at me, Sherlock.”  
Mycroft spoke just loud enough for his brother to hear him, but not the two agents.   
“It is all my fault, and my disgust is directed towards myself, not you.”  
Sherlock had opened his eyes and gazed at him intensely now, eyes narrowing.  
“I’m not repelled by you.”  
Mycroft kept his features open, as difficult as it was for him. He could tell the exact instant that Sherlock made the deduction, followed by him raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat, as he waited for his admission – for himself - to be rejected or ridiculed by his brother. But there was only a look of sadness and something like longing? It was gone very quickly, as his brother’s expression grew closed off again. Mycroft felt his heart miss a beat.  
“Just let me go, Mycroft”, Sherlock said, his voice resigned and tired now.  
“It is better this way.”   
“No, Brother.” Although not keeping his distance would mean constant temptation and pain, Mycroft did not want Sherlock to just walk out of his life again.   
“You’re not recovered enough to be on your own yet,” he said.   
“Give it a few more days.” 

His brother shook his head.  
“There is some urgent business I need to attend to.”   
So, it was back to this again. Sherlock walked down a step.   
“Sherlock, please.”   
His brother stopped again for a moment and gazed at him, as if deliberating. Then he set his jaw.  
“I will leave now, Mycroft.” Did he sound tentative?  
Mycroft kept his gaze steady, not moving away. 

The next few seconds were a bit of a blur in Mycroft’s mind afterwards. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped down the stairs pouncing directly at him, clearly intending to just run him down. His only thought was not to let him pass. He found himself bending and throwing out his arms in front of him at the same time Sherlock came at him. His hands grabbed his brother’s hips crashing into him. He held on to them, pulled, and straightened up simultaneously, which to everybody’s astonishment, most of all his own, resulted in Sherlock laying across his shoulder, legs draped down his chest, upper body and arms flailing across his back. 

Mycroft put his arms around his brother’s thighs to hold him steady, because he was bucking and writhing, as soon as he was aware of his position, desperate to get off of him.   
“Put me down immediately, Mycroft”, he shouted.  
“I need to go. You mustn’t . . .”   
He pushed himself upward from Mycroft’s back with his arms in an effort to straighten himself out, thus unbalance Mycroft and slide down his front to the ground. When that did not work he kept hammering his fists against Mycroft’s back and his legs against his front, screaming all the while, panic rising in his voice.  
“Please, I have to go, there will be dire consequences, if I don’t.”

Mycroft knew Sherlock would not be able to keep this up for very long, not in the physical state he was. If his brother would just calm down. What consequences? For Sherlock? For him?  
“Sherlock!” He tried to get through the growing desperate frenzy, to no avail.  
“No, you can’t know, you mustn’t, no! Let me go. Let. Me. Go.!  
The more Sherlock fought the more Mycroft knew he could not let him leave on his own. Not like this. He simply dug in his heels, kept his arms locked around his brother and waited for the storm to die out. He threw a quick look at Page and Lyons signaling that they should stay back.   
“Stop struggling, Sherlock”, he finally pressed out, exasperated and starting to grow desperate himself.   
“You’ll only wear yourself out. You can’t get away.”

At this, from one moment to the next, Sherlock stilled completely, his body growing limp and pliant. Mycroft was so surprised that he almost lost his balance. Sherlock allowed Mycroft to carry him to the living room without any problem and without another sound coming out of him. This radical change in behaviour chilled Mycroft to the bone. He did not know what to make of it. 

At the same time, he was suddenly very aware of his brother’s body draped over his own, of his hands on Sherlock’s thighs, of his brother’s perfect arse right next to his cheek. If he turned his face just so, his mouth would touch that most delightful slight dip that formed the bridge between the thigh muscle and the buttock. He felt heat pooling in his groin imagining it. Guilt and shame flushed through his body just as hotly. 

He deposited Sherlock on the sofa in the living room, His brother let himself be arranged into a seated position without any resistance, as if he was some kind of doll. Mycroft was growing concerned observing this near catatonic state, eyes wide open but seeing a different agonizing reality, judging by his look. Mycroft had witnessed similar states in agents in treatment after traumatizing experiences in the field. Flashbacks in agents suffering from PTSD. 

After an instant in which he stamped down on his own panic, Mycroft squeezed his brother’s shoulder reassuringly.  
“Sherlock?”  
After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft bent and placed a gentle kiss on his brother’s forehead. This seemed to ground him a little and bring Sherlock back somewhat from whatever bad place his mind had gone. Mycroft sought his gaze.   
“I just want to make sure that you are safe and cared for. Will you let me do that?”   
After a moment’s pause he added:   
“Please, brother dearest, let me help.” 

Would Sherlock pick up on the hint, since he seemed to suspect that Mycroft knew something about Sebastian? His brother stared at him moment, then dropped his gaze and looked down into his lap.   
“Do what you want with me”, he said quietly. It seemed to Mycroft as if Sherlock was reciting something from the past, a bit like during the hallucination that very first night, but not. It still felt off, and the resignation Mycroft sensed in his brother’s voice in the next sentence, felt like he was suddenly standing in freezing water.  
“It’s not as if I could do anything about it right now.” 

Then, after a pause, Sherlock visibly shook himself, straightened up, and looked again into Mycroft’s eyes.  
“I couldn’t do anything about it.” His expression did not give away anything, but Mycroft noted the change from conditional to past tense in the repeat sentence, the unspoken admission. I couldn’t do anything, then. But now I can? But now you can? But now we can? 

Tea was a silent affair, but not uncomfortably so. Both brothers seemed to be welcoming the quiet after what, for them, had amounted to a very emotional display. Both were content to stay in their own respective minds for a while. When Beavers came with fresh tea, Sherlock had him bring his laptop and proceeded to busy himself on it, while Mycroft studied some files Anthea had sent on to the house after he had left the office. 

The silence was suddenly interrupted by a phone ringing. Mycroft looked at the caller ID and rose from his chair.  
“I had better take this in my study”, he stated in his brother’s direction.   
“Might need to check some files.”   
But he remained standing where he was, not sure whether to say more, until Sherlock lifted his gaze from the screen, narrowing his eyes at him. Then he tilted his head.  
“You can leave me here, big brother.”   
The sarcasm Mycroft had come to associate with Sherlock’s use of this expression was not there this time.   
“I won’t run away” – short pause – “tonight.”   
He looked back down at the laptop screen, effectively dismissing his brother. 

“I will be back shortly,” Mycroft said on his way to the door, wondering whether his brother had just told him that he planned something for the next day.   
If so, did it have anything to do with Sebastian? That would mean his brother expected him to be part of that plan, otherwise there would be no sense in dropping hints. Sherlock knew he would pick up on them, and he had offered him his assistance. But how was he supposed to act, not knowing what Sherlock planned? His brother could not even be sure, if he knew about his past or his possible present dealings with Sebastian at all. He certainly could not be as mad as to rely on Mycroft aiding him successfully with a plan he had not made sure he knew about? Mycroft was good, and he had intimate experience with the way his brother thought. But he was no mind reader. 

Well, that would have to wait. Once in the hallway, Mycroft answered the call immediately.   
“Sir”, Anthea’s voice came through the speaker.   
“We found a possible key to the Sebastian problem.”


	3. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a plan. Mycroft gets some graphic confirmation for Sherlock's abuse at University.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part ended up being longer than I first anticipated. So I decided to split it into two chapters. This one ends with a bit of a cliffhanger, but I will post the next chapter soon.  
> Chapter count is up once more. This might happen again in the remaining parts, because my characters just tend to take longer to get around to things.
> 
> There are some graphic descriptions of violence, assault and rape toward the end of this chapter and in the next chapter. It was necessary to describe in more detail what was done to Sherlock, so the brother's motivations for the justice they will exact will be better understood. This might be triggering for some.

Twenty minutes later there was a satisfied semi-smile playing around the edges of Mycroft’s mouth. Tax evasion, embezzlement, and the best part – money laundering for an organisation dealing in drugs and human trafficking: Sebastian and at least two of his university friends had gotten themselves in very deep with their banking business in the few years since their graduation. That would put them into prison for some time, when they were discovered.  
There had been additional allegations of sexual molestation and assault in the two different banks they had been working for. But they could not be prosecuted for that, because the women involved had never filed a complaint or pressed charges against any of them. 

The reason Mycroft only half smiled was that none of these crimes were his division. So whereas he could tip off the responsible authorities, he still needed a way in to be able to take over the investigation. And, naturally, that was his goal, because embezzlement and tax fraud would only get them a couple of years in prison or they might manage to get away with just a large fine. Even money laundering, if it could be proven in court, would not get them more than a few years, if they could not be shown to have played a bigger part within a vast internationally operating syndicate. 

And that was not nearly the punishment Mycroft had in mind for his brother’s tormentors. Not by a long shot. He wanted their lives to be affected as much as Sherlock’s life had been affected. He wanted them to suffer, to be humiliated, the ties to their families and friends severed and annihilated, their future perspectives crushed. He wanted them to see him and his brother in their nightmares, just like Sherlock was haunted by their faces every night.

So, he had told Anthea to continue their search and dig even deeper. There might be more, since apparently Wilkes and his cronies had originally gotten involved in their criminal activities because of the debts they had accumulated in recent years. Cocaine and gambling - not unusual vices for the thrill-seeking, overconfident but not very bright city boys that they were – could do that for you. So, they might have dug themselves in even deeper than what had become apparent at this first sweep. 

Walking back to the living room from his study, Mycroft’s brain was already bringing up different paths of action allowing him to arrest Sebastian Wilkes and the other two involved in the embezzlement and the money laundering scheme – one Derek Seymour and one Peter Higgins – without raising any suspicions. His involvement had to appear as a completely normal procedure to the outside, nothing uncommon, no questions asked. 

Because, if anybody started to ask questions, the connection between the arrested subjects and Sherlock might come up, and Mycroft had absolutely no interest in that happening. He did not want to give Sebastian and his friends the chance to have their cases go to court, but not just because he wanted to avoid any risk Sherlock’s history with them might come up. Mycroft wanted free range to deal with Sherlock’s abusers as he saw fit. Courts, lawyers, the general public, even the law could only be an annoying interference for the execution of justice in this particular case. 

When he entered the living room, debating with himself whether or not to try and convince his brother to go to bed, he found Sherlock reclining on the sofa apparently fast asleep already. He was in a half-sitting position on the sofa with his legs stretched out on it, his torso propped up against the arm rest and leaning in towards the back, where his head seemed to have drifted as well in the process of dozing off. He had his laptop lying open across his thighs with his hands still resting on the keyboard, fingers partially splayed out, as if sleep had caught him and whisked his consciousness away in the middle of typing. 

Mycroft smiled at the picture in front of him. Then he walked up to the sofa with soft steps and carefully lifted his brother’s hands away from the keyboard placing one next to his legs on the sofa and the other across his abdomen. Having put the laptop on the coffee table, he took an Afghan from the back of one of the chairs and covered Sherlock with it, hoping the entire time his movements would not wake him. He still looked so fragile after his illness, and with the outburst earlier he really needed all the rest he could get. 

When Mycroft backed away from the sofa, one of his legs collided with the laptop which almost toppled over and off the table as a consequence. He caught it just in time and shoved it back onto the table, his eyes quickly scanning the screen. The mail account was open, and Mycroft’s gaze was caught by an address starting with ‘swil’ that Sherlock had apparently received quite a few messages from over the last few weeks, some of them with attachments. A rapid check showed Mycroft that, whereas his brother had ignored the first few messages, he had answered the more recent ones, his last response registering only 10 minutes ago. 

Mycroft opened the most recent of the messages and found that its sender was indeed Sebastian Wilkes. So, they were in current contact with each other, as he had feared. Now it was clear what had provoked Sherlock’s memories of his abuse to resurface and triggered the nightmares. It might even have been Wilkes contacting him and the reason for this contact, not a case his brother had been working on that was responsible for Sherlock neglecting to eat and sleep and finally having ended up so ill. 

Mycroft made a decision then. He hurried to his study, retrieved a memory stick, snuck back to Sherlock’s laptop and as fast and noiselessly as possible copied the contents of his brother’s mail account. When he was finished he made sure to cover his deed carefully, so Sherlock would not notice. Although this went much further than the usual level of surveillance he had his brother under, Mycroft felt no guilt at all over this rather drastic breach of privacy. He had failed to protect his brother from Wilkes once, with devastating results. He was not going to fail again. 

In the calm and privacy of his study Mycroft familiarised himself with the correspondence of the past several weeks between Wilkes and his brother, as it evolved through the mail exchange. Wilkes had contacted his brother about 6 weeks ago out of the blue, seemingly just to say hello, as if nothing had ever happened between them at university. When Sherlock did not react, he started sending mails every couple of days in a more and more insistent tone, that there was a problem at his bank he wanted Sherlock’s help with. 

When Sherlock still ignored him, he began throwing in first subtle and then not so subtle references to the occurrences that were at the heart of his brother’s nightmares, threatening to disclose certain visual data of these events in his possession, if Sherlock did not reply and refused to assist in solving the problem. 

Sherlock’s first reaction to Wilkes had been sent on the first day his brother had been lucid again after the fever. In it he told his tormentor that he was willing to have a look at his problem, if he destroyed the data he possessed, but was out of the country at the moment and thus would only be able to meet him after he returned in about a week. He should send him additional information concerning his problem. 

Two days before Sherlock’s first reaction, Wilkes had sent another email, one that had a video file attached. Mycroft hovered over the icon with the cursor without clicking on it, while he was thinking through whether he should open it. It was obvious that the attachment contained some of those ‘visual data’ Wilkes had mentioned. Mycroft could well imagine what was on the video. 

But that was the problem, really. Once he opened the file and watched it, there would be no room left to hide from the reality of what had actually been done to Sherlock, no room for imagination to make it less gruesome or unbearable. No, once he opened the file he would know, know in every detail. And the images of his brother being hurt, beaten, tied down, raped would be burnt into his memory not ever to be deleted. Would Sherlock forgive him, if he watched the video? Would watching it give him any additional data to condemn his brother’s abusers more easily or bury them deeper? Did he want to know exactly what had happened?

Mycroft decided to read the rest of his brother’s correspondence with Wilkes before deciding, whether to watch the video. It turned out that the ‘problem at the bank’ Wilkes wanted help with, was that the authorities had apparently caught on to the tax evasion scheme he was running and were sniffing around. And he wanted Sherlock to make the external auditors that had been sent stop looking. Wilkes - alluding to Sherlock’s ‘intimate relations’ with people in higher governmental positions – with a lot of embellishment basically demanded that he use those relations, to terminate the investigation, using the videos he had as blackmail. 

Sherlock refused to involve Mycroft, no surprise there, but replied that he knew another way to solve the problem, to make the investigation run into a dead end and come to nothing. He made Wilkes send him the records, professing he needed details to prepare a plausible story for the auditors and cover the tracks of Wilkes and his two cronies Seymour and Higgins. Probably he just hoped to gain some information from them that he might use against Wilkes in order to free himself from the blackmailing threat. 

Browsing through these documents Mycroft soon noticed the traces that the money laundering activities had left in the records. He knew about that side business of Wilkes from his own people’s research. So, it was easy for him to see the clues. Had Sherlock found them, too? Or was he really ready to make himself an accomplice in the criminal scheme of people who had hurt him so badly, just to keep secret what had happened to him? What had he done to make Sherlock so afraid to confide in him? 

Sherlock’s email history showed that it was two days, since Wilkes sent the records from the bank. His brother had only replied once more to this, with the message he had sent a few minutes before Mycroft had discovered his correspondence with Wilkes, when he had accidentally almost pushed Sherlock’s laptop from the coffee table. 

Sherlock’s latest email to Wilkes made Mycroft first frown, but then smile and sigh with relieve. His brother had detected the trail indicating the money laundering activities. After all, he had the most brilliant mind Mycroft had ever encountered – excepting his own. Even ill and emotionally compromised it still functioned beautifully. What created the frowning line on Mycroft’s forehead was that Sherlock not only told Wilkes that he knew about the money laundering, but also offered him to make sure the authorities would stay away from that, as well. Why would he do this, when he could potentially use Wilkes’ dirty business to finally hang him and rid himself of him?

The smile came, when Mycroft read on and finally saw that this was exactly what his brother intended to do. And in a very clever way that also gave Mycroft his way in, making it a case of national security. Apparently, Sherlock had really changed his mind and decided to finally enlist his help. Sherlock told Wilkes he had written a computer programme called Scaramouche, that could scramble and redirect payments and other financial transactions across a number of accounts – fictitious and real ones -, so it would become impossible to reconstruct the original pathways. All that anyone could find would be completely legal transactions, with the money ending up somewhere safe where British authorities could not get to them.

All Sherlock needed was access to their bank’s internal computer system for a couple of hours to run the programme and destroy all traces of it having been implemented afterwards. He suggested going ahead with this plan the following night, but insisted on only doing it with all three of them – Sebastian, Peter and Derek – present with him and turning all existing material concerning their dealings with each other at university over to him. Otherwise he would inform the authorities of their illegal activities he had found in the documents and to hell with what they did with the videos. 

But Scaramouche, actually, was no computer programme, it was the codename of a secret service operation Mycroft had run some time ago to close down a vast international criminal organisation that had involved human trafficking into a child prostitution ring from Eastern Europe to the UK among other things. Sherlock had been involved in the operation in some minor capacity that included sussing out financial transactions taking place between the participating partners in different countries and connecting them to specific trafficking activities in the UK. 

Sherlock mentioning Scaramouche as the name for his fictitious programme in his message to Wilkes told Mycroft two things: First, instead of erasing the traces of his former abusers’ criminal activities from the bank’s computers, once he had access to their system, Sherlock planned to implicate them into crimes touching national security by fabricating digital proof connecting them to the international syndicate they had struck a major blow against with operation Scaramouche, but that was still existing. That would make dealing with Wilkes and his friends Mycroft’s division, no questions asked. It was a very elegant plan. 

Second, nobody outside operation Scaramouche had ever known of it. Using this specific codename now, Sherlock was not only telling him what he was planning, but was asking for his back up for his meeting with Wilkes at the bank. And as if to make absolutely sure Mycroft would understand, Sherlock, in his email, had added that he had used the Scaramouche programme before for a similar problem to repay the debt he had to a friend who had once pulled him out of a pond with a broken leg. It had worked perfectly then. 

Mycroft stared at the computer screen marveling at his brother’s cold blooded and backhanded plan of attack, when on the face of it all he had seemed so off kilter and fragile, nothing short of overwhelmed by the turmoil of his emotions. Apparently, Sherlock had counted on Mycroft monitoring his correspondence. Still, how could he be sure that Mycroft would actually read this email to Wilkes? Only telling him of his plans and asking him for assistance in this very indirect way seemed unnecessarily risky, except if . . . Mycroft pictured again the scene in the living room earlier. When he had received the call from Anthea, Sherlock had more or less hinted at the fact that he planned to leave the house for something tomorrow. 

He had left him typing on his laptop, yet when he had reentered the living room only a short time later, Sherlock had been fast asleep – or had he? His laptop had been on his legs, hands still on the keyboard, email account open with the last message of Wilkes on the display. Could he really have been . . .? Yes, he must have. Mycroft grew more and more convinced that his little brother had staged the whole scene to make sure he would see Wilkes’ and his emails and notice the recentness of his latest message. There must have been no doubt in his mind, that Mycroft would read the mails. Well, Sherlock knew him well and apparently could be just as devious as he himself. 

But if Sherlock meant for him to read the messages, did he also mean for Mycroft to watch the video Wilkes had attached? Mycroft decided that he must do. It was logical, really. Sherlock, by now, would be fairly sure that Mycroft knew at least part of what had happened with Wilkes and the others, knew that it was not just nightmares. They had both sort of acknowledged this fact in their own way this evening. 

It was also clear that Sherlock would never tell him outright or in detail what had happened. They hardly ever talked about feelings at all, how could they talk about something like that? Still, Sherlock must be aware that Mycroft had to know, needed to know, would find out one way or another. So, he chose to show him by giving him this video. A very Sherlock way of acting. 

Sherlock knew and was aware that Mycroft knew, as well, that the video Wilkes had attached would not contain the worst things they had done to him. So, whereas Mycroft would get some information about the nature of the abuse – hopefully enough – Sherlock could keep the things he would find most humiliating to himself. Mycroft also understood it as his brother’s silent plea to not go looking any deeper, once he had watched this video. Mycroft would have liked to promise to his little brother that he would leave it at that. But he knew in his non-existent heart that he could not. 

At the start of the video the picture was dark, and there was only the sound of footsteps and breathing. Two or three people, Mycroft estimated. A moment later, a whispered dialogue started, and the identity of the protagonists was disclosed.  
“When we get in the room, Higgins”, the first voice started in a commanding tone, “put the camera on the bookshelf over by the door, about the fourth shelf up should do fine. Zoom on middle distance will catch enough of the room for what we want.”  
There was Higgins’ muffled assent, then the first voice continued sounding a bit further away. The speaker had turned to someone else, then. 

So, Higgins was the one holding the camera that was apparently already filming, but with the cap still on the lens. Was that a mistake, or did Higgins do it on purpose? But why? Mycroft decided to file this question away for later analysis, as he listened on.  
“Seymour, you will go directly to his bed – softly, mind you – then wait for Higgins to join you, before I will turn on the light.”  
If Seymour was addressed and Higgins was the one with the camera, then Mycroft deduced, the one speaking at the moment and issuing instructions must be Wilkes.  
“We need to be careful, he’s fast. We don’t want him to give us the slip.” 

Now a second voice took over. Seymour answering Wilkes?  
“When’s McGormick coming back, Seb?”  
“He’s away for the whole weekend. Some kind of celebration up in Aberdeen.”  
Mycroft heard the smile in Wilkes voice.  
“Dear Alistair is the perfect roommate for Holmes for our purposes and so careless with his things. Didn’t even notice he was missing his keys, until I had made the double and put it back in his jacket.” 

There was chuckling, then Wilkes went on sounding positively predatory and very pleased with himself.  
“We can take as much time as we want with this. Nothing and no-one to interrupt.”  
Seymour hummed in acknowledgement, then asked:  
“But why the filming? Isn’t that a bit risky? I mean, we’re sort of incriminating ourselves, no? Creating evidence for, you know, kind of non-con acts and such?”  
In answering, Wilkes sounded slightly exasperated. If there had been a picture to go with the audio, Mycroft was sure he would have seen Wilkes throwing his friend a look that said ‘useful idiot’ much more than ‘friend’. 

“The threat of the incest slander won’t work forever now, will it? It would probably fall apart anyway, if we tried to go through with it. Holmes isn’t stupid, and he’s been busy gathering hard proof for our cheating in last terms’ exams. I’ve got that from a reliable source.”  
At this, there were alarmed gasps from the other two, but Wilkes continued regardless.  
“He’s trying to get us expelled, the arrogant bastard. Have his revenge for the little number we did on him and be rid of us in one go. Thinks he can best me, the little freak.” 

His voice was dripping with contempt now.  
“Younger than everybody else, but always knowing fucking everything in every bloody course, feeling too superior to share a pint at a party with us lesser mortals, but shoving his intelligence in everybody’s face all the time with his creepy deductions. Looking and dressing like pure sex on legs, but playing freaking virgin Mary, whenever anyone takes him up on his blatant invitation.” 

Mycroft was shocked. He had been wondering, since he had got to know about the abuse, whether and in what way Sherlock had tried to fight back. He had had a hard time believing his brother had simply given in to that threat of vicious slandering and resigned himself to abuse and rape repeatedly without trying to extricate himself from the situation. And Sherlock had fought, the way he always did: alone, relying on himself and his brilliant mind. But it had been that brilliance – Sherlock proving their tormentors’ cheating that would get them expelled from university – that ensnared him far more deeply in Wilkes’ trap. 

Although Mycroft did not fool himself thinking Wilkes and his cronies would have stayed away from Sherlock after their first attack, if they had not felt massively threatened themselves by Sherlock’s retaliation. Still their future assaults might have been less vicious, maybe. Not for the first time since Sherlock’s hallucinations during his fever Mycroft asked himself, why his brother had not come to him at some stage during all this. But something had changed Sherlock’s mind now, and although Mycroft did not know what it was, he was grateful for it. 

“Shouldn’t we maybe try to negotiate something with Holmes?”  
A new voice, that of Higgins, started up.  
“Before this gets too out of hand, I mean?”  
The other two snorted derisively.  
“God you’re such a pathetic wimp, Higgins”, Seymour commented.  
“Not at all, Derek, you misread our dear Higgins here”, Wilkes chimed in gleefully.  
“It’s because he’s got a soft spot for Holmes, isn’t it?”  
“Are you mad?” Higgins gave back weakly.  
“No, I think I’m right, actually. I know for sure you tried to chat him up a month ago, Douglas saw you. Freak wasn’t receptive to your sweet talk, so now you’re trying your luck our way?” 

Higgins did not reply to Wilkes’ teasing. There was a short silence, then the sound of one of them clearing his throat, before Seymour was heard again:  
“So, I agree Holmes needs to be taught a lesson. And the filming is for leverage, I get that. But we’re still incriminating ourselves with it. What if he doesn’t go for it?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“What, if he doesn’t care, if we show the video around, put it on the internet or something? I mean, we can’t really do that with us going a bit non-con and all.”  
Wilkes sighed.

“God, I’m surrounded by a weakling and an idiot. Of course, we’re not showing it around, you moron. I mean, we could easily edit it so it would all look consensual. But it would still show us fucking a bloody man, wouldn’t it? Unless of course, you want to out yourself as a queer?”  
“I haven’t thought of that”, Seymour replied.  
“Yes, I gathered”, Wilkes commented drily.  
“Then what do you want to do with the video?”  
“Nothing. Just threaten to send it to that sanctimonious brother of his in the government.” 

Seymour was not convinced yet.  
“What, if Holmes doesn't care about that? Or even worse, tells his brother about it to get help?”  
“Where you actually there, when we had our bit of fun with Holmes two weeks ago? He adores his big brother. That little speech was some hero worship, if I’ve ever heard any. Holmes already thinks he can never live up to his brother’s standards. He will never want him to know we got the better of him, that he was stupid and weak and allowed others to use him like this. He will do anything to prevent that”, Wilkes finished smugly. 

Mycroft had to admit that, whereas Wilkes was a disgusting character, he certainly had the ability to read people and use what he found cleverly against them. He could not wait to get his hands on him. Seymour seemed still a bit uncertain.  
“Are you sure?”  
“We just have to make tonight humiliating enough for Holmes, then we will own him”, Wilkes mused.  
“And I think we can make sure of that, don’t you?”

The footsteps finally stopped. A feeling of dread settled in Mycroft’s stomach. They must be standing in front of the dorm room Sherlock had occupied at university.  
“Ready for some fun, then?”  
Wilkes was heard again. Mycroft noticed a key being turned in a lock and a door being slowly opened.  
“Turn on the camera now, Higgins”, Wilkes ordered. 

So, he had not been aware that the camera had already been running for their previous rather revealing dialogue. But Higgins must have noticed, at least at that point, but had not said anything. And it had not been deleted afterwards, either, had even been sent to Sherlock together with the visual that was about to unfold now. Interesting, Mycroft thought. Had Wilkes not checked the sequence before sending it? Was he not aware of this conversation at the beginning of the tape? Or did he just not care that Sherlock now had a confession and evidence for premeditated rape against him, since he was sure his brother was too ashamed to ever go to him or the police with it? Mycroft’s lips curled in a glacial smile. The overconfidence of this bastard would be his downfall. 

First, there was some more shuffling and still darkness, before a wobbly picture appeared, as Higgins took off the lens-cap and seemed to install the camera on the bookshelf. A moment later, the picture suddenly brightened, as the lights in the dorm room were turned on. Mycroft could now put faces to the voices of the three men he had heard before. He recognized Wilkes standing near the door, with Seymour and Higgins by Sherlock’s bed in the far corner. They were certainly a bit younger than on the current pictures in the intelligence his agents had collected, but still. 

Sherlock had been asleep in his bed, but was stirring now. Seymour drew away Sherlock’s blanket and shook his shoulder.  
“Wakey, wakey, Holmes, the time for your beauty sleep is over.”  
Sherlock blinked and started sitting up in bed, when he realised who was standing in front of him. Immediately his body tensed, and he scrambled back in the bed away from Seymour and Higgins, still trying to orient himself within waking reality. But then he caught himself, and Mycroft could see how his brother forcibly put on a relaxed manner, formed his facial expression into a mask of indifference. 

He got out of bed shoving past Higgins and Seymour and walked to the middle of the room. The two followed, crowding up on him. Sherlock glared at Wilkes.  
“I don’t recall inviting you. Get out.”  
“Good evening to you, too, Holmes, or actually good morning, as it is past midnight already.” Wilkes’ voice was smooth and pleasant.  
“Thought we’d pay you a visit. we’ve got some things do discuss.”  
He made a couple of steps backwards, as Sherlock had been slowly moving towards the door, while he talked.  
“No, no, dear boy, nobody’s leaving until we’ve reached an agreement. You’ve been very naughty, collecting evidence against us. That won’t do. Won’t do at all.” 

Wilkes stepped right into Sherlock’s personal space, and Sherlock was stopped from evading him by Higgins and Seymour, who had closed up behind him on either side.  
“We’re here to teach you not to do something like that again”, he drawled very slowly and let the index finger of his right hand trail a leisurely path on Sherlock’s t-shirt from his color bone past his left nipple, across his rib cage that had started moving with his quickening breaths, and down to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. 

What followed in the remainder of the video would stick in Mycroft’s mind forever in images of most vivid detail. And although he was sorely tried several times to stop or fast forward the video, he sat through it to the end. His brother had suffered through all of this with his own body and mind. The least he could do was not look away. So, he watched Sherlock’s failed attempt to get away and run out of the room. He watched Seymour and Higgins restraining his arms behind his back and pushing him down on his knees. 

In the meantime, Wilkes had unzipped his trousers, taken his cock out, and started stroking it to hardness, before he proceeded to shove it into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock, of course, kept his jaws clenched shut as he still struggled against the hold of the restraining hands on his body. He turned his face as far away from Wilkes’ cock as he could. But that only brought his mouth right in front of Seymour’s length, who had relinquished the task of keeping Sherlock in place to Higgins alone, had moved more to Sherlock’s side and copied Wilkes’ action. 

Wilkes lost patience to wait for Sherlock to comply, and Mycroft knew his brother would rather bite the other men’s cocks off than agree to suck them. Wilkes seemed to think so, too. So, he grabbed Sherlock’s hair and pulled hard, until Sherlock could not but scream from the pain that caused. At which moment Wilkes shoved his entire length swiftly between his now parted lips burying his brother’s nose in Wilkes’ pubic hair. 

The man kept tearing at Sherlock’s hair, pulling his head back, and started a relentless rhythm of moving his hips back and forth roughly, his cock hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat with every forward move. Sherlock could not scream anymore, but started gagging and gasping for air. 

After a while, Wilkes pulled out and took a step to the side, but still kept his hand in Sherlock’s hair. He gave Seymour an encouraging look, and before Sherlock could catch his breath, the second man had stuck his penis in his throat and, again, copied the actions of Wilkes, while Wilkes contented himself with accompanying the face-fucking with a soundtrack of dirty talk. 

Only, Seymour did not have the other man’s self-control. Whereas Wilkes had certainly appeared more and more aroused and coming close to the edge, he had stopped before climaxing. Seymour’s movements on the other hand became more and more frantic and jerky, pushing his cock still deeper into Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock was getting choked and started panicking. Higgins called out first, asking Seymour to stop, because Holmes was going to faint. When this did not have an effect, Wilkes, letting go of Sherlock’s hair, pushed at Seymour, yelling to pull out, admonishing that he was not meant to go all the way in Holmes’ mouth, they had other plans. 

But it was too late. A couple of seconds more, and Seymour came with an obscene grunt, spilling his ejaculate into Sherlock’s mouth. Even before the man could pull his softening cock out of his throat, Sherlock turned his head away and pushing at the vile object in his mouth with tongue and teeth. He started spluttering, spitting the disgusting fluid out of his mouth as best he could, while heaving great lungfulls of air into his body. Higgins had let go of him in shock, and Sherlock fell forward, catching himself on his arms and retching. 

There was a short respite for Mycroft watching the video, as Higgins went to the bathroom and brought back a flannel and a glass of water for Sherlock. Mycroft - in that moment at least - was grateful to Higgins. His brother, on the other hand, did not even look at him, but jumped up and ran to the bathroom, before any of the others could react. Mycroft could see from the reflection of the bathroom mirror on the screen how Sherlock washed out his mouth out with water repeatedly, then proceeded to brush his teeth with frantic movements, then rinsed, washed his mouth out again. The look in his eyes that Mycroft could catch in the mirror was one of abject horror. 

In his need to cleanse himself of any trace of what had just been inside him, Sherlock seemed to have tuned out his three assailants in the bedroom for the moment. But, of course, they were still there.  
“God, Seymour, you pig, couldn’t you have contained yourself?”  
But the amusement in Wilkes’ voice took the bite out of his statement.  
“Look at what state the freak’s in.”  
Seymour snickered.  
“That’ll teach him to keep his mouth shut, the little rat.”  
“Yeah, but we don’t break our toys now, do we? That would be the end of the fun.”

Then Wilkes patted Seymour on the shoulder in a pitying manner.  
“But then again, you’ve already used up all your powder. So, no more fun for you tonight anyway.”  
Seymour groped at his crotch and smiled.  
“Loads more where that came from.”  
But Wilkes threw him a dark look at that.  
“Get in line, Seymour. My turn next.”

Through the bathroom mirror, Sherlock was watching the others now. Why did he not use the opportunity of their distraction to lock himself into the bathroom, Mycroft thought? He might be trapped there, but he would also be safe. The thugs would get bored and leave eventually. But then he remembered from his visits to Sherlock’s room that there was no lock on that door. 

Sherlock had to go for the only strategy open to him at the moment: Negotiation and bluffing. When he returned from the bathroom, he looked all superior and cool, haughty expression put on like a mask.  
“If you leave now and never bother me again, I will just turn in the proof of your cheating in last term’s exams. You might only get suspended.”  
His sounded conversational enough, but his voice was dark.  
“What are you saying?”  
Wilkes certainly had not expected this reaction.  
“Oh, come on, Wilkes”, Sherlock continued.  
“Don’t be tedious. The three of you have haven’t started cheating only last term.”

Wilkes, Seymour and Higgins exchanged glances. Sherlock sighed.  
“Not one paper that you or Seymour have turned in is actually your own work. They’re either rather blunt plagiarisms or you’ve had them ghostwritten, mostly by Charly Winterbottom, whom you’ve paid the first couple of times and then – when he got a bit too greedy for your liking – you’ve blackmailed with his cocaine habit.”  
Sherlock pointed at Higgins.  
“Higgins here at least tried to write his own work at first. But he’s just too stupid to succeed on his own thinking at university.” 

Mycroft almost wished his brother’s act of condescending arrogance would not be quite as convincing. He knew Sherlock was only trying to hide his fear behind it. But he also knew it would only goad Wilkes and his mates into more horrific treatment of him.  
“You cannot prove any of this,” Wilkes said now.  
“Actually, I can prove all of it. And I will, if you don’t piss off.”  
Seymour looked nervous.  
“You’re bluffing.”  
“No. Now get out.”

Mycroft was very proud of his little brother watching his coldblooded bluffing. He himself had taught Sherlock the beginnings of this kind of strategy, when his brother had first been bullied in primary school. It might have worked, Mycroft thought. It really might have, had it not been for the blasted camera and Sherlock’s devastating conviction that his big brother must never learn anything of what those bastards had done to him. 

He hated himself for all the taunts and the teasing he had done in the past that had apparently made his brilliant, beautiful little brother think himself inferior, that had made him feel Mycroft would consider him weak for getting hurt, would contempt him for being abused and raped. How did the perfect understanding between the two of them get so derailed, so twisted that he had pushed Sherlock away, because he could not tell him how much he felt for him, and Sherlock had pushed him away, because he could not tell him how much he had been hurt?

In the video, Sherlock had moved towards the door to the hall to underscore his point.  
“Seymour”, Wilkes directed, and the man put himself in front of the door to keep it shut.  
A positively predatory smile spread on Wilkes’ lips, as he stared at Sherlock with cold eyes.  
“I don’t think I want to leave just yet.”  
He let his gaze slowly wander down Sherlock’s body, then back up again, taking his time.  
“No, me and my friends are going to have some fun.”  
He licked his lips.  
“I will fuck your tight little virgin hole now and finish what I started two weeks ago, when we were so rudely interrupted by professor Bierbeck’s assistant showing up at your door. You were so deliciously scared of my big, hungry cock.”

Wilkes closed the gap between himself and Sherlock, who watched him but stood his ground.  
“First me, then Seymour and Higgins”, he stated in a low voice leaning into Sherlock’s space. But Mycroft could still hear his words.  
“We will all fill your pretty arse with our long, thick dicks, push them into you up to the hilt again and again so you can’t sit for a week, like you deserve for wanting to rat us out.”  
Wilkes took a breath and then blew the air out slowly against Sherlocks neck. Sherlock flinched away involuntarily, but Wilkes stopped him with his left hand on the other side of his neck. 

He smiled cruelly.  
“We will punish you hard for being such a naughty little snitch. And you will take it on your hands and knees like the perfect little teacher’s pet you are.”  
He tried to grab Sherlock’s bum now, but Sherlock finally succeeded in pushing him away. Wilkes just laughed.  
“You might even like it. Never got any complaints so far from the girls, and I like them fighting back.”

Mycroft could tell that Sherlock tried very hard not to let his mask slip hearing Wilkes’ threat and knowing himself to be vastly outnumbered.  
“Did you not understand what I just said, or are you just too dense to get it?”  
He stepped away from Wilkes edging closer to the door again which was still guarded by Seymour. Higgins stood slightly apart, more to the middle of the room.  
“Your threats or your genitals will not keep me from handing all my evidence in. Only your immediate departure will.”  
He glared at Seymour.  
“Move.”

Mycroft wanted to wipe the smug expression off Seymour’s face. And he would, before long. Seymour turned towards the bookshelf, lifted his arm, and waved.  
“Say hi to your brother, Sherly.”


	4. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a hard time watching the video of his brother's rape. Sherlock has a hard time dealing with the fact that his brother now has seen the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are triggered by descriptions of rape, please proceed with care. 
> 
> It might take a little while until I can put up the next chapter, as I have a deadline for a presentation and a paper coming up on me. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments. I was so afraid that nobody would like this.

Sherlock’s head swiveled around, and Mycroft saw the moment his brother’s gaze found the camera sitting on the shelf and filming. For an awful instant he felt, as if Sherlock’s frightened eyes were staring directly at him. Of course, it had taken his brother but a second to realise the implication behind Seymour’s taunt. 

“No”.   
It was a dark rumble at first, and he started towards the bookshelf. Seymour and Wilkes were quick to grab him and hold him back.  
“No, no, no.”   
Sherlock kept repeating it, his voice growing from an angry growl to a frenzied howl as he struggled against their arms, broke free, made another move towards the camera, got caught again, kept fighting.   
“Uh, he’s losing it”, Seymour commented gleefully.   
“Mr. Smartarse is scared.”  
“Stop talking and help me get him on the bed”, Wilkes retorted, slightly panting already. 

Seymour had his arms around Sherlock’s torso from behind and started dragging him backwards, while Wilkes was trying to get hold of at least one of Sherlock’s legs. But his brother, in a quick sequence of moves, first threw his upper body forward against Seymour’s arms, at the same time smashing his foot against the other man’s shin. This resulted in a pained yelp from Seymour, accompanied by a slight loosening of his grip. It was enough for Sherlock to be able to turn around and land a right hook on Seymour’s jaw, followed immediately by quarter-turn of his torso back towards Wilkes with his arm bent, hitting Wilkes right in the solar plexus with his elbow. 

Wilkes went to his knees, momentarily out of air and looking like a fish on dry land. In other circumstances it would have looked funny, but now, Mycroft only felt tense and angry. He noticed he had clenched his fist in time with his brother’s action. Unfortunately, Seymour had recovered too fast from the hit to his jaw, brute that he was. Well, his intel did say that he had been in the university rugby team. Seymour was on Sherlock again, before his brother had made more than two steps towards the door of the dorm room. He clocked him on the head from behind and tripped him up with a foot between his legs at the same time. 

Sherlock crashed headlong to the floor. Seymour jumped on top of him, kneeling on his back with his legs on either side of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock bucked wildly, trying to throw him off. But Seymour was a big man, much heavier than Sherlock, and he was angry. While Wilkes was still gasping for air clutching his hand to his chest and Higgins was still standing uselessly in the middle of the room looking more and more uneasy with the situation, Seymour grasped Sherlock’s flailing arms by his wrists, one after the other, twisted them and pinned them to his back painfully. 

Sherlock was breathing hard, but had stopped moving, since every move would cause more pain. Seymour leant forward.  
“Got you, freak. You’re mine now”, he whispered.   
Seymour lifted himself up slightly onto his knees, transferred both of Sherlock’s wrists to a one-hand hold, and started pulling down the pyjama bottoms of the man who was trapped beneath him. 

At this point Wilkes made himself heard, finally having got his breath back enough.   
“Stop that, you bastard. I told you I’m first.”  
He sounded still a bit wheezy, not very authoritative. Seymour went on holding Sherlock’s arms with one hand and wiggling down his pyjama trousers with the other, while Sherlock had renewed his struggle to get Seymour off him.  
“I’ve already got his arse right in front of me, Wilkes, and I’m ready to go.”

Wilkes was next to them now, looking positively furious.  
“I don’t want to stick my cock where you’ve already soiled the grounds.”  
He pushed at Seymour’s shoulder.  
“You can have him after me, and we’re using condoms you filthy boar. Getting each other’s come on our dicks is a revolting thought, ain’t it, Higgins?”

Wilkes looked at the man over his shoulder. It seemed to Mycroft that Higgins appeared slightly nauseated as it was, standing there watching the proceedings mutely. Obviously though, Higgins was not repulsed enough to actually step up and help his brother. A textbook coward, who felt guilty but was too scared of the negative consequences for himself and too comfortable with his gains to do anything about it. Mycroft knew the sort only too well. 

Wilkes and Seymour squabbling had enabled Sherlock to wrench his arms out of Seymour’s grasp. He did not lose any time to use them, pushing himself up from his prone position forcefully. Seymour was thrown on his backside by the unexpected movement, and Sherlock was on his feet. This last-ditch effort to get away might have succeeded, since Wilkes was not nearly as fast as him. But luck was not on Sherlock’s side that night. 

He stumbled, and Wilkes was there grabbing him by the waist.  
“Higgins, some help?” He hissed trying to hold on, but clearly not used to fighting.   
“You haven’t earned your reward yet.”  
They began dragging his brother across the room to his bed, but Sherlock still kept struggling hard against them, writhing and kicking and lashing out more and more desperately. Like this, the little group was teetering towards the far side of the room, until Seymour joined them from behind and smashed Sherlock against the wall between the window and the bed. 

His brother seemed dazed for a moment, and Wilkes used his opportunity.   
“Hold him steady”, he instructed Seymour and Higgins.  
Then he pulled Sherlock’s pyjamas down his legs and off his feet, produced the lube from his own trouser pocket, and splurged a copious amount on his fingers. Seymour scowled contemptuously.   
“Thought we were gonna punish him, not make him like it”, he spat.  
“Yeah, but we’ve got to prepare his little unused hole, don’t we,” the other replied, as if he was explaining something very simple to somebody very stupid.  
“Otherwise he’s gonna rip something, bleed like a stung pig, and scream the house down.”  
“So?”  
This time, it was Higgins who replied.  
“If he’s injured, he’ll have to see a doctor. And they will ask questions and draw conclusions.”  
“Thank you, Higgins, at least one of you is using his brain sometimes.”

As soon as Wilkes’ lubed fingers touched Sherlock’s backside, his brother’s whole body tensed, and he tightened his buttocks as much as he could.   
“Don’t. Let me go!”  
Wilkes pushed his fingers between Sherlock’s cheeks and started circling his hole.  
“This is going to happen, Sherly, nothing you can do about it.”  
He tried to push one of his fingers in.   
“Relax, you’ll only hurt yourself.”  
“Fucking faggot’s gonna start begging for it soon enough”, Seymour chimed in again. 

Mycroft found himself distancing his emotions from what he was witnessing by rationalizing the least damaging course of action for Sherlock at this point. Logic would demand to just let the rape happen and get it over with, since there was no way left to him to avoid it at this stage. So, the goal should be to minimize time and level of physical exposure. But following logic in this would have felt like giving in to his abusers, and to his brother that would very likely appear more like a defeat than fighting to the very end and losing. The words Sherlock had mumbled tonight in the living room came back to him again:  
“I couldn’t do anything about it.”

 

Sherlock did not beg, and he did not relax either. On the screen, he kicked and fought like a drowning man knowing the flood would pull him under at any moment. He tried to get away from Wilkes’ intruding fingers, tried to free himself from the other two men’s hands pressing him hard against the wall. Wilkes swore.   
“Goddammit, keep him still, won’t you! Can’t get anything done here. This was not supposed to be a sodding wrestling match.”  
Seymour suddenly screamed.  
“Fucking piece of shit bit me!”  
“Stop struggling, Sherlock, you stupid bastard. You’ll only wear yourself out. You can’t get away.”

Mycroft froze. There they were, the same words he had unwittingly said to his brother this afternoon, when Sherlock had wanted to run away and they had had their altercation in the entrance hall. He had suspected that Sherlock’s strange reaction was from some sort of flashback he had suffered. Now he knew, what had triggered it – and who. Of course, he could not have guessed that those words were not completely harmless. But that did not mean Mycroft did not blame himself. 

In his fury for having been bitten, Seymour grabbed Sherlock’s hair at the back of his scalp and smashed his head into the wall with quite some force. Suddenly all movement stopped, when Sherlock slumped against the wall limply. He would have fallen to the ground but was held upright by Seymour and Higgins. Wilkes finger suddenly slid inside Sherlock’s entrance easily, as his body relaxed completely.   
“What have you done?”, Higgins gasped out. 

Wilkes put two fingers of his hand that was not currently buried in Sherlock’s arse to his neck to feel his pulse, while Seymour pulled Sherlock’s head back from the wall turning it, so he could see his face. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and there was a thin line of blood on the side of his forehead, seeping out of from his hair. Seymour checked his skull where it had hit the wall.   
“Just split the skin a bit. Nothing broken.”  
“You a doctor now?”, Higgins asked, sounding annoyed and scared.   
Wilkes had pulled his fingers out of Sherlock’s hole and was counting and looking at his wristwatch.   
“Pulse is fine. Just out cold for now.”  
He looked at the other two.  
“Well let’s put him on the bed and get on with it. He will be much more pliable now.”

If Mycroft had thought the video was difficult to watch, when his brother was still fighting off the inevitable, he learnt that it was even harder to watch now that there was no resistance anymore. Sherlock was lying on the bed on his belly, Wilkes was kneeling between his legs and had gone back to opening him up. He had three fingers in his hole already. They had bound Sherlock’s hands with the belt of his dressing gown and fastened it to the headboard, even though his brother was still unconscious. They were not taking any more chances, apparently. 

Seymour was watching Wilkes’ fingers slide in and out of Sherlock’s arse eagerly, standing next to the bed. He had his trousers and pants down to his feet and was treating his cock to some lazy stroking. Higgins was sitting by Sherlock’s head checking his pulse from time to time and seeming rather uncomfortable. Wilkes looked at him frowning.  
“Calm down, Higgins, you’re making me nervous hovering there like gloom and guilt personified. I thought you fancy Holmes?”  
He let his eyes wander across Sherlock’s body.   
“I’m certainly not a queer, but even I must say that this is one glorious arse.”

Seymour was obviously growing impatient.   
“Stop the chatter, Wilkes, and fuck him already. Or can’t you get it up?”  
“I’ll show you just what my cock can do”, Wilkes retorted.   
“You can count yourself lucky, if there’s anything left for you, after I’ve ploughed through him.”  
He wiped the fingers he had used to prepare Sherlock on the bedsheets, got out of his trousers and pants, and rolled a condom on his erect penis.   
“See? I’m hard as a rock, while you have problems coaxing yours to come out to play”, he teased, not smiling. 

He got on the bed and between Sherlock’s legs again, nudging them further apart with his knees. He beckoned to Higgins.   
“Give me a cushion, I don’t want to get a cramp in my legs.”  
Then he turned to Seymour.  
“See that you don’t obscure the picture with your fat backside.”  
He lifted Sherlock up by his waist and shoved the cushion underneath his lower abdomen, then spread his legs apart even further and lined himself up behind him. 

Mycroft wanted to stop the video, wanted to scream, jump into the scene, grab his brother and get him out, get him to safety. He could not bear seeing him so helplessly exposed to the view of those cruel bastards, so completely at the mercy of those brutes. It was wrong, so wrong for this to have happened, and for him to be sitting here, condemned to watch but not be able to do anything to prevent it. 

Although, watching this scene of Sherlock’s rape, he was not turned on at all by the sight of his brother’s naked arse on display like this, – and thank god for small mercies – he felt in a very visceral way, that if anyone should ever see Sherlock in this way, it should be him or no-one, and in circumstances that were safe and consensual. He wanted to cut off those vile creatures’ dicks and shove them down their throats, rip off their balls and nail them bleeding to their foreheads. And he just might, he just might, when he got his hands on them tomorrow.

His brother came to, as Wilkes was pounding into him accompanied by obscene grunts, his balls slapping against Sherlock’s perineum audibly. It took a moment for Sherlock to orient himself, to realise he could not get out of his restraints, had his legs in a position that would not give him any leverage, and was held in place by hands pressing into his hips in a way that would surly leave finger shaped bruises. He stifled the screams that threatened to escape his mouth every time Wilkes’ cock rammed into him. 

But Wilkes must have noticed the change in muscle tone.   
“Ah, there you are, Sherly. Wouldn’t want to miss the good part, would you?”  
Seymour snickered.  
“Don’t need to hold back, though”, Wilkes continued.  
“Let us hear you, come on.”   
Sherlock remained quiet.   
“You’re so tight, feels real good”, Wilkes panted, speeding up now.   
“Uh, your arse! It’s like fucking a plump, juicy peach.”  
Was he trying to humiliate his brother, or was he just turned on more by his own soundtrack?  
“Gonna come so hard, gonna rip your tight little arse apart shooting off.”

Mycroft curled his lips in disgust watching Wilkes give a long drawn moan and orgasm in his brother. The man did not seem disturbed in the least that his two cronies were witnessing it. And they did not seem put off, either. Seymour had even started pumping his cock with more vigor. Bit of a voyeur, that one, Mycroft noted. 

Sherlock did not react at all. Mycroft had seen the moment his brother had retreated into his mind, shutting out sensory input on a conscious level, only processing it in a subconscious, automatized manner for later perusal, if he wished. His brother had originally learnt the memory technique of loci from him, but had perfected it over the years and developed it into a mind palace that was not only a storage place for vast amounts of knowledge and details, but which Sherlock also used to play through different scenarios to be able to predict the most likely courses of action people would take and most likely outcomes. 

His brother had decided, then, that it was best, not to remain in the current reality for the moment. Or maybe it had not been a conscious decision but the only refuge that had been left to him to be able to bear what was being done to him. Sherlock remained passive, when Wilkes finally pulled out of him, and vacated the space between his legs to Seymour. He remained passive, as an impatient Seymour complained that this position was not working for him, then pulled him onto his knees, pushed and shoved, manipulating his body, until he was almost in Seymour’s lap, with his arse in the air and his thighs either side of Seymour’s. 

Sherlock also remained passive, as Seymour shoved his dick into him roughly and started thrusting in and out fast and hard immediately, pushing and pulling him back and forth on the mattress in his uncouth eagerness. After a while, both Seymour and Wilkes grew progressively frustrated by his brother’s lack of response. After Sherlock’s vehement resistance earlier, they apparently did not know how to interpret this behavior.

“Hey freak, how do you like my big cock?” Seymour tried.  
“Stunned you into awed silence, didn’t it.”  
Wilkes slapped Sherlock’s buttocks.  
“Come on, Sherly, put on a good show for your brother. I’m sure, he’ll wank to this video every night, when you’re not home.”  
Seymour stopped his thrusts for a moment, as Wilkes’ vulgar taunt did not elicit any reaction from Sherlock. He looked at his companion.  
“Ignoring us, is he? Can’t have that.”

He started up again pounding Sherlock’s arse even more relentlessly now.   
“None of the birds have ever just lain there like a log of wood, when I had my cock in their pussy. No, they’re always begging for more, they get down on their hands and knees for me real quick, like the bitches they are, because they can’t wait for my big, fat rod to give it to them good.”   
He had talked himself into a veritable rage.  
“And no freaking faggot is going to ignore me, either.” 

Seymour was sweating now, his face red. Mycroft wasn’t sure whether from anger or exertion. He was breathing hard, as he kept thrusting into his brother, who remained unresponsive and limp in his hands.  
“This is for wanting to get us expelled.”  
Thrust.  
“For daring go against us.”  
Thrust.  
“Remember, we’ll send this video to your brother.”  
Thrust.  
“If you do anything against us.”  
Thrust.  
“If you don’t do what we want.”  
Thrust.  
“You will present your arse to us, whenever we stop by for a shag in the future.”  
Thrust.  
“You’re nothing but our fucktoy now.”  
Thrust.  
“Nothing but our bitch.”   
Thrust.  
“We can do whatever we want with you.”  
Thrust.  
“We own you from now on.”  
Thrust.  
“Remember.”

It got harder and harder for Mycroft to keep watching the seemingly endless ordeal, as Seymour kept raging and pounding, until he finally climaxed with a loud groan and collapsed on top of Sherlock panting and sweating. When he climbed off the bed after a bit having recovered, Sherlock’s only reaction was to curl in on himself as much as his bound hands would allow him to. 

“God, you destroyed him, you animal”, Wilkes laughed incredulously.  
“Didn’t know you had it in you.”  
“Fucking freak was asking for it”, Seymour grumbled, busy righting his clothes.  
“What do you think you’re doing, Higgins?”

Wilkes was suddenly aware again of his other companion in the room, who had largely been tuned out of the interaction, while he and Seymour were focused on Sherlock. Higgins had remained at the head of the bed the whole time, quiet and still. Now he was trying to untie Sherlock’s dressing gown belt from the headboard.  
“Well, I thought we were finished.”  
“Leave the thinking to me, Higgins”, Wilkes said.  
“You’re not very good at it.” 

Seymour snorted. Higgins jutted out his chin.  
“He got the message.”  
Wilkes gazed at Sherlock lying there on his side with his legs drawn up to his chest, face hidden between his arms.  
“Yeah, I think he did.”  
Higgins seemed puzzled.  
“So, what else do you want?”  
“I want for you to fuck him, too”, Wilkes replied, looking straight at Higgins, his expression deadly serious.

Higgins jumped up and stepped away from the bed at that.   
“I don’t want to.”  
He was walking backwards towards the door, shaking his head. Wilkes followed him keeping his eyes locked on Higgins.  
“You did very much want to, when we discussed this.”  
“I . . . I’ve changed my mind.”  
“Not an option, old chap.”

Wilkes had laid an arm round Higgins’ shoulders, a seemingly friendly gesture, that was not. He started guiding him back to the bed sweeping across the scene generously with his other arm.  
“In whatever way you prefer.”  
Higgins stopped.  
“I really don’t . . . I don’t feel like it”, he started.  
“I don’t care.” Wilkes kept his arm around Higgins, who dropped his gaze to the floor.  
“I don’t think I could, you know, right now”, he mumbled. 

Wilkes smiled at him. It was not friendly.  
“Sure you can, old chap.”  
“I can help”, Seymour spoke up.  
But Wilkes waved his hand dismissively at him, and instead shoved Higgins up to the bed.   
“Oh, no, no, no. Our Higgins here will do just fine, won’t you?”  
Higgins lifted up his head and looked at Wilkes.  
“Why is this so important?”

Mycroft knew exactly, why Wilkes wanted Higgins to rape his brother, as well. All three of them had to be implicated in this deed in the same way. Like this, they would not only have leverage against Sherlock through the video, but against each other, too. No friends they were, but partners in crime, with knives at each other’s throats. How lovely. And Mycroft would use it against them. 

In many respects, the forced intercourse between Higgins and his brother was the most difficult of the instances on the tape for Mycroft to watch. Not because he felt pity for Higgins, who really looked quite unhappy undressing and getting on the bed under the watchful eyes of Wilkes and Seymour, trying as yet unsuccessfully to stroke himself to hardness. But in his selfish effort to alleviate his own guilt and be able to perform at all, Higgins took the path of pretending the sex between him and his brother to be consensual. And he apparently thought he could convince himself best of this, if he was gentle with his unwilling opposite and give him pleasure, as well. 

He had turned Sherlock on his back and was kissing and licking across his torso, his neck, his jaw, pinching his nipples and stroking his thighs. His brother tried to avoid the unwanted caresses. This renewed assault had obviously thrown him out of his mind palace. But with his arms still bound to the headboard, there was not much he could do, but scoot up further on the bed and try to get his knees between his torso and Higgins to push him off. 

“Keep still Holmes”, Higgins whispered to him.  
“I don’t really want to do this, either. We’re in the same boat.”  
Mycroft wanted to punch him. How dare this despicable little coward compare his situation to Sherlock’s?  
“But I can make this feel good for both of us. Just let me, and this will be over soon.”   
And he pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. 

It seemed to work for him, as his cock soon stiffened. It did not work for his brother, as he writhed and squirmed under Higgins, not from pleasure but in an attempt to avoid his touches as much as possible, which was not very much. Higgins on the other hand seemed rather turned on by Sherlock’s movements. It reaffirmed the phantasy of consensualness that was playing in his mind, as he was fucking his brother with enthusiasm now. Leaning over him between his spread legs, he had one hand on Sherlock’s penis, pumping it in time with his thrusts.

There were cheers from the other two.   
“Go for it, Higgins, that’s my boy.”  
“50 quid, if you can get him off.”  
Sherlock must have felt his cock harden, because he suddenly stared down at it in a panicked manner. Then he quietly started reciting the chemical formulae of some complex molecules. It sounded like incantations, and Mycroft found himself whispering them in unison with his brother.

After it was finally over, Mycroft turned off the screen with trembling fingers and fell back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. Higgins, fortunately, had not had any stamina, and left off as soon as he had climaxed. So, Sherlock had at least been spared the humiliation of a forced orgasm. Higgins had unbound his hands, whispering ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry’ over and over again, while his brother had immediately curled himself up into a fetal position against the wall. His tree tormentors had eventually left after reiterating their threat of sending the video to Mycroft and stating they would be back for the occasional top up to make sure he would not forget.

Mycroft felt shattered. A bone-deep tiredness made him believe he would never again have the energy to get up out of this chair, much less the strength to walk downstairs to the living room and face his brother. Though, when he checked, the video had only run for slightly more than thirty minutes, the world had changed radically. Well, his world. Sherlock had been living in this bleak reality for a long time already, alone and too scared or too ashamed to share it with him. 

Until now. And that fact was what Mycroft knew would give him the strength he needed to not just face Sherlock but reassure and comfort him. Sherlock had a plan now to finally battle those dreadful ghosts of his past. They had a plan. He would be there with his brother and have his back, because Sherlock finally allowed him in. How much or how far, he did not know yet. But it was enough for now. The Holmes brothers would sweep in tomorrow and leave devastation in their wake. 

Mycroft got up, took the USB-stick out of the computer and put it in his safe. He needed to talk to Sherlock now, about the details of his brother’s plan, about the video, about his feelings for him - about the plan. He pictured his brother in the living room, where he had left him a short while ago, asleep on the sofa, or maybe not. All the secrets between them, the unspoken thoughts and feelings. They did not do sentiment or talking. How to do it now?

Mycroft got some respite deciding what to reveal to his brother, what to keep hiding. Sherlock was sleeping soundly, when he reentered the living room. This time for real, as Mycroft took made sure to observe his breathing pattern very closely this time. He went to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. Beavers had the evening off. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he thought about the details of Sherlock’s ‘operation Scaramouche’s revenge’, as he had named it in his mind. There were a lot of things he still needed to know to be able to make adequate preparations for the part Sherlock seemed to have allotted to him. His brother tended not to be overly concerned with risks – especially to himself – as long as he got results. Mycroft’s was the part of safety and rescue. This time, that would be more important than ever. 

Mycroft was deep in thought, mapping out different options and outcomes, actions and reactions of the involved parties in his mind, staring at the boiling kettle without seeing it, when he was shaken out of his ruminations by the now sadly familiar screams from the living room. Tea forgotten, Mycroft rushed trough the hall and was kneeling next to the living room sofa in no time. His brother was still caught in his nightmare, throwing his head from side to side and lashing out with his arms and legs to ward off assailants not only Sherlock could now see before his mind’s eye. 

Mycroft caught his brother’s flailing hands in his own, rubbing up and down his arms, making soothing noises.  
“Shsh, Sherlock, it’s alright. You’re safe, you’re only dreaming.”  
Again and again. Reassuring, calm.  
“Shsh, you’re fine. It’s fine. Wake up.”   
With yet another shout Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed around wildly. His face is sweaty, his breathing fast and shallow. 

Eventually his gaze fixed on Mycroft. His tense muscles relaxed slightly at first. But then he frowned and his head suddenly swiveled to the coffee table with his laptop on it, then back to his brother, eyes narrowed. He sat up slowly, still breathing hard, and lowered his gaze to his hands that Mycroft had let go, as soon as Sherlock was waking up.   
“You’ve watched it, then.”  
So, not about the plan.  
“Yes.”  
Sherlock did not look up.  
“You wanted me to.”  
“No.”   
Mycroft held his breath.  
“But you needed to see it.”  
Mycroft breathed again.   
“Yes. And you needed me to see it.”

Sherlock did not answer. He kept staring at his hands. Mycroft did not know what to say next. But he did not want the silence to grow. It would spread between them again and make it impossible to talk, make it impossible to look at each other. Sherlock withdraw into his self-imposed isolation, and he would lose him again. 

“I’m glad you’re including me in your plan.”  
“Will you be ready for tomorrow?”  
Sherlock gave him a quick glance, before looking away again.  
“I could stall for a day, if you need more time.”  
Mycroft smiled.  
“Tomorrow will work.”  
“Good.”  
“We’ll have to talk about the details.”  
“Yes.”

He seemed so unsure of himself, so small, almost timid, Mycroft thought. That would not do at all. Sherlock was not timid or small. Not his brilliant, beautiful brother. He was a force of nature, strong, free, indomitable. Those three ordinary villains would not make his brother think less of himself. He would not have it. 

He must have let some of his anger show on his face, because Sherlock’s shoulders suddenly slumped forward a bit, making himself even smaller.  
“I know, you would have found a way to avoid this unpleasant outcome in the video, had you been in my position. But I . . .”  
“This unpleasant outcome?”   
Mycroft did not believe his ears.  
“You’re right. You would never have been in my position at all. I just . . .”

Sherlock started trembling slightly and put his arms tightly around his torso, hugging himself, shoulders almost up to his ears, rocking back and forth. Oh Sherlock. Before he could think better of it, Mycroft reached out and pulled his brother into a hug.   
“None of that, brother dearest”, he whispered in his ear. 

Sherlock lay against his chest, and Mycroft could feel the trembles rippling through his torso, the rapid heartbeat, the breaths puffing against the crook of his neck, where his brother’s face was currently buried.   
“You’re the strongest person I know”, Mycroft said honestly.   
“The most beautiful”, he continued.  
“With the most brilliant mind.”  
“Except for yours,” Sherlock mumbled against his color bone.   
“Possibly”, Mycroft conceded, “but that’s irrelevant.”

He slid his right hand into his brother’s sweaty curls, drawing soothing circles on his scalp with his fingers. His left hand was rubbing up and down Sherlock’s back. It felt good. It felt natural. It felt right. At one stage, Sherlock's arms came around his middle, hugging him back.  
“Nobody could have done better. I could not have done better.”  
Mycroft’s hands continued their activities, and gradually Sherlock relaxed, almost snuggling into his chest, or so it seemed to him. Mycroft lowered his face into his brother’s hair and breathed a kiss onto his head.  
“I love you, Sherlock.”  
Mycroft did not expect a reply, and there was none. But his brother’s arms tightened around his waist. Mycroft smiled.  
“Tomorrow we’ll get them, brother. It’ll be over, I promise. Tomorrow we’ll get them, you and I together.


	5. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's tormentors from uni finally get what was coming to them. When the Holmes brothers work together, the bad guys should be very scared. But with all the secrets revealed and threats gone, where will that leave Mycroft's and Sherlock's relationship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took a lot longer to finish than I would have liked. Thank you so much for all the encouraging messages you sent me. To know that there are people out there who like this story and are waiting for it to continue, is just so amazing. I'm interested to hear how you like Mycroft in this chapter. And don't worry about the cliffhanger at the end of this chapter. I promised a happy end to those of you who asked. And that will definitely happen. But as always with the Holmes boys, things are complicated.
> 
> The last chapter of 'Perfect' is already sketched out. It will be called 'New Beginnings'. But it will take a while again to finish it and put it up, since I have to work on another writing project first now. One with a deadline coming up. So, I hope you will have patience again and stick around for the rest.

Mycroft had just about had enough. After four hours – a full four hours, his inner watch petulantly reminded him - of uselessly sitting and watching the screen of his laptop, he was on the verge of jumping out of - the admittedly very comfortable – desk chair in the office of the board of directors’ president. He was itching to simply run down to the bank’s server room in the basement, where Sherlock had been holed up with Sebastian Wilkes and his two cronies for entirely too long. Mycroft did not remember ever experiencing as much difficulty to keep his outward mask of calm and indifference in place as he did now. 

Yes, he had his agents in place and ready to move in, just as soon as his brother gave the signal they had agreed on, which, unfortunately, he had not done yet. And yes, both cameras they had working were transmitting the goings on in perfect clarity, the one integrated in a button of Sherlock’s shirt, and the one Sherlock had conveniently attached to the metal housing of one of the server machines. It faced towards the desk Sherlock was currently working at, but was at a far enough distance from it that a large part of the room not occupied by the servers themselves was visible. 

The small gadget had gone unnoticed by the three bankers, who were most likely unfamiliar with any IT equipment other than their own PCs or mobile phones, and would not know that one of the blinking lights was not actually part of the server at all and should not normally be there. Oblivious fools. 

Nothing was awry. Everything was going according to the plan his brother and he had formulated the night before. Mycroft had convinced the president of the bank’s board of directors with subtle threats to leave the running of his office and indeed his bank to him and his agents for the night, and to ask no questions; if he did not want to face an interrogation by his majesty’s best for his bank’s involvement in an international criminal organization spanning over several countries. 

The man had been out of his office so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. Mycroft’s agents had been ensconced in their positions inside and outside the server room unobtrusively for hours, before Sherlock arrived to meet his former tormentors from uni in the early evening. 

Through lens and microphone of Sherlocks button-camera Mycroft had monitored his brother’s every move – figuratively speaking - from the moment he had left his townhouse. Sherlock had taken a cab to the bank, where he had been expected impatiently by Wilkes, all smarmy smiles and fake comradery. They had then been joined by Peter Higgins and Derek Seymour. The three bankers had wanted to proceed down to the room hosting the bank’s servers in the basement immediately. 

But Sherlock had stopped moving in front of the lift and had simply remained standing there. So, the other three, who had already entered the lift, had been forced to step out again, when the doors began to close on them. They had appeared confused and slightly irritated. Well, that had not taken long, Mycroft noted. 

But his brother had just faced them and held out his right hand, open, palm up.  
“Give them to me.”  
It had been spoken in a low, bored voice. Higgins had not seemed to follow yet. Wilkes, on the other hand, had.  
“Who says you won’t just walk off, if we give you the videos now?”, he had challenged.  
“Who says you won’t keep back copies?”  
“You’ll get them, when you’ve done your job”, Seymour had chimed in.

Sherlock had heaved a very put upon sigh, turned on his heels and, without another word had made for the windmill-doors at the other end of the entrance hall. After a second of stunned disbelief, Wilkes and his two shadows had of course followed after his brother, not quite running, but taking rather brisk strides.  
“Holmes, stop!”  
Sherlock had not.  
“Come on, Holmes, don’t be like that. Seymour was just joking.”

Wilkes had tried to sound casual. His brother had stopped, turned around, and once more extended his hand. This time, Wilkes had been quick to give him an envelope. Sherlock had opened it silently and peered into it, holding the envelope at an angle that his button camera would catch the contents, as well: several USB-sticks. Mycroft had gasped up in the president’s office. How many videos were there? 

“God, you still have absolutely no sense of humor, Holmes”, Wilkes had drawled in mock exasperation.  
Sherlock had not responded, but had walked back over to the lift.  
“Finally”, Seymour had sneered behind his back.   
“Better shut up, Seymour”, Higgins had hissed. Maybe he was not quite as stupid as he looked. Then the lift doors opened with a ‘ping’. 

The next four hours had been spent in the basement. Not that Sherlock really needed access to the actual server machines to accomplish what he wanted to do, namely implicate the three bankers in the illegal activities of the trafficking ring he had helped decimate some years ago with operation Scaramouche. Sherlock would not even have had to be in the bank physically to perform his elegant piece of digital retribution. Mycroft had learnt with more alarm than he cared to admit that his brother had obviously refined his hacking skills quite a bit in recent years, since he apparently had succeeded in hacking his way through the Secret Service’s security systems and retrieving the data he needed from Scaramouche to complete his task tonight. 

But the large room with all those computers whirring and standing around in their tall metal cases had the advantage of granting easy hiding places to his agents in its shadows. And the basement was devoid of people in the evening. Nobody working on the upper trading floors at night would notice anything happening down there. So, he and his brother had agreed that the meeting must happen there, and that a meeting in person must happen to spring the trap on Wilkes, Higgins and Seymour. It was efficient. It was logical. 

Still, Mycroft did not like it one bit. He did not want Sherlock anywhere near those three despicable excuses for human beings ever again. Not for a minute, and definitely not for four bloody hours. It helped his rising anxiety a little that he knew some of his agents were already in the same room with his brother and could intervene at just one word. But it did not help much, as there were several floors between him and the people on his screen and he had to watch Wilkes and the others sitting and standing around in an altogether far too unrestrained manner, while Sherlock worked on the laptop he had brought with the prepared information. 

At first, they had asked Sherlock questions. How long was it going to take? Did he have what he needed? Was he getting on alright? But after his brother had shot them down viciously and then had proceeded to ignore them, they had sneered that their taking down of him at uni had apparently not kept his superiority complex at bay for long and that maybe another lesson in the same vein would make him more tolerable. 

At this, Sherlock had straightened up from his hunched position at the laptop. He had calmly risen, and, still facing the three bankers, had started to walk towards the door.   
“With the video material you’ve already turned over to me, I’ve largely got what I came here for, as you noted yourselves earlier.”  
His mouth formed a slight smile, but his eyes remained cold.  
“In the end, your little problem with the authorities is just that: your problem.”

Sherlock’s voice had not wavered at all. And although he still looked very pale and must be feeling a long way from recovered and well, he had exuded an air of confidence. The expensive suit he had given his brother in the morning certainly helped, Mycroft mused, feeling rather self-satisfied. It was bespoke and came complete with two shirts, one black and one white, as well as fine Italian leather shoes. 

He had had the ensemble made for Sherlock a little while back with the idea of gifting it to him in recognition of his new profession as a consulting detective. But this morning had seemed the right occasion: A suit of armor for Sherlock to go into battle with. A pair of old jeans and trainers simply would not do.

And Sherlock did look exquisite in those well made black trousers that showed off his long legs and clung to the perfect curve of his arse, as if they were made for it, which of course they were. The narrow black jacket on the other hand, hugged Sherlock’s slim waist just this side of indecent and highlighted his tall frame and straight-backed posture. 

First, Sherlock had laughed at the idea of wearing a suit to impress, had called him ridiculous and said Mycroft might need clothes to prop up his ego with all the posh people he spent his time with, but he certainly did not. Well, for all his protestations to the contrary, his brother now seemed to take full advantage of the ‘dress to impress’ effect his new suit afforded him, courtesy of Mycroft’s excellent tailor and his good eye and perfect memory when it came to his brother’s measurements.

Sherlock’s display of confidence, strength, and nonchalance had convinced the three city boys in the room instantly. Their arrogant smiles had vanished from their faces and they had looked more than slightly terrified at the prospect of Sherlock actually leaving. Wilkes had even come up with some sort of apology for their remark, and Higgins had moved the chair back into a suitable position for Sherlock to sit down at the desk again. Only Seymour had not quite managed to play along, and had only withdrawn from the desk further into the room, where he had remained standing and glowering. 

What had followed was about a half hour of strained silence, after which the three waiting bankers had struck up a conversation amongst themselves, first in whispers, but then reverting to a normal speaking volume. When Sherlock had kept working in solitary concentration, Wilkes, Higgins and Seymour had gradually relaxed, as they were talking about their recent trading successes, the latest workout trends in the fitness studios they frequented, developments on the stock markets, their sexual conquests and some restaurant that had just opened in the city and that everybody was apparently raving about. 

How debilitatingly boring their lives were, Mycroft thought. They should thank him for relieving them of such tediousness. The thought brought a pleased smile to his face for a moment, before it turned predatory. Yes, he would very much enjoy taking all the things their money and their ruthlessness had bought them away from those vapid little men, vermin that they were. He would enjoy watching them try to cling to their money, their jobs, their homes and pastimes, watching them embarrass themselves, begging and sobbing, to keep even the crumbs of the lives they were used to. Oh yes, Mycroft was so looking forward to stripping them of all their pretenses down to their bare disgusting, empty selves. 

If only Sherlock would give the signal to move in already. Mycroft did not see what could possibly take him so long, since his activities in the server room were basically just window dressing, really. He should long have been finished, even taking into account the approximately twenty minutes Sherlock had taken to check all the memory sticks from the envelope in the beginning. Through the lenses of now two cameras, it had been painful for Mycroft to observe how his brother had clicked on every single file with a stony face to make sure what he had been given were the real files. 

What Mycroft saw now, was that his brother would certainly rather be anywhere else in the universe than in this face-to-face situation with the three men who had been the protagonists in all those video files with him. The longer it took, the more signs of stress and anxiety became apparent, at least to Mycroft, who had learnt to read even the smallest of his brothers tells; had had to learn them, because, for years, Sherlock had not disclosed anything of what was on his mind by way of verbal means. 

But even when they were still children and Sherlock was safely cocooned within the world of their brotherly bubble, they had never talked much. It had been a lot easier to just follow each other’s thoughts with the help of their deductive reasoning skills, sharp intelligence and keen observation of the other’s body language. The necessity to use actual words only arose with other people, and Mycroft had discovered how much he missed the intimacy of their silent conversations, when Sherlock had cut him out of his life in the wake of the first abuse from the three hateful figures currently in the room with him. 

Sherlock’s posture was rigid, his fingers were not dancing lightly and rhythmically across the keyboard, as they normally would. They were jumping and twitching almost haltingly on and off the keys at times. Every so often, his brother seemed to gaze at his screen vacantly, as if he had momentarily zoned out or withdrawn to his mind palace. Until life surged back to his face a few minutes later, and he appeared to actually see what was on his screen again. 

“Come on, Sherlock, just give me the signal”, Mycroft whispered up in the president’s comfortable office.   
“You’ve done enough, let me take it from here.”   
He could barely watch anymore. Mycroft got out of his chair and started pacing in front of the desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest, fingers digging into his biceps.   
“Give me the signal, brother dear. Please, I’m here. Let me help, let me in.”

Mycroft kept repeating the words under his breath, like they were some kind of incantation. And maybe they were, because all of a sudden, Sherlock, down in the basement, stood up from his desk, as if he had heard his brother’s plea. Mycroft stopped pacing, as his brother marched straight towards the camera stuck to one of the server housings. Then, Sherlock turned toward Wilkes and the other two slightly, telling them he was finished, while Mycroft grabbed the laptop several floors above him and started to make his way down to the basement.

“Get ready for action”, Mycroft snapped over the audio line into the ears of his agents.  
“I just need to readjust some server settings now, won’t take a minute”, Sherlock told the three bankers in the room with him. He smiled into the camera, straight at Mycroft, who was waiting for the lift to arrive. Then he passed between two server towers and disappeared in the back of the room.  
“Now!”, Mycroft shouted watching the numbers change too slowly above the lift doors on his way down.

Half a second later two of Mycroft’s men silently stepped out of the shadows behind some of the server towers, clad all in black, weapons drawn. Reflexively, Wilkes, Higgins and Seymour took a step towards the door, signs of shock and confusion warring on their faces. But just then, the door was thrown open by two more black figures spilling into the room and equally pointing their weapons at the city boys. 

“What the fuck”, Seymour bit out staring at the four agents who had surrounded them.   
Higgins tentatively put his hands up. Wilkes seemed frozen for a moment.  
“Holmes”, he breathed then, sounding almost thoughtful.   
But Mycroft could not be sure, since he had to watch his screen, while he was moving along the basement halls. 

“Holmes”, Wilkes repeated more loudly, calling to the back of the room.  
“What the hell is this?”  
The server machines kept whirring indifferently, and the four agents were standing and watching silently.  
“Holmes, you absolute bastard, come here and explain what’s going on.”  
Seymour was quickly going from stunned to angry, apparently pulling Wilkes right along.  
“What have you done, you sneaky little fuck? What’s the meaning of this? Come here and deal with this immediately!”

“Gentlemen, there is absolutely no need for shouting or expletives”, Mycroft drawled sauntering into the room at that moment.   
He set his laptop down on the desk he had watched his brother working at for those long hours and took his time to walk up to his three prisoners, as if he were strolling through an exhibition. He supposed he was, in a way, and now it was time to take a closer look at the three specimen, who had just been pinned to the wall – metaphorically, so far.

Mycroft wanted to give his brother a few moments to relax and breathe out of everybody’s sight in the back. He gave his agents a small sign to lower their weapons and let his gaze zoom in on the men they were keeping in check. They looked annoyed, confused and angry, but not yet nearly as agitated and scared as Mycroft wanted them to be. Well, that would have to be remedied.  
“Mr. Wilkins, Mr. Seymour, and Mr. Higgins”, he enunciated slowly, savoring the moment he could at last take over the interaction.   
“I can’t say it’s nice to finally meet you in person, because it’s really not. But the business you and I have to conduct together will make me very happy, indeed. Although, I’m fairly sure the feeling will not be mutual.” 

Mycroft had made his voice sound almost pleasant. Over the years, he had found that sounding nicely conversational while voicing threatening contents had a far more disconcerting and intimidating effect on the recipients than shouting did. It seemed to work this time, too.  
“What’s the meaning of this, I want to know”, Wilkes replied.  
Still too full of himself, but Mycroft detected the uncertainty that had crept into his tone.   
“Who are you anyway?”, Seymour demanded. 

This one was apparently too stupid to feel threatened yet. Mycroft turned to the remaining man.  
“Mr. Higgins, would you like to add a question? The three of you seem to do most things together.”  
And he made a show of gazing around the room haughtily, then inspecting his fingernails for a moment, and finally looking back at the three men down his nose.   
“Hanging around in the schadows, conducting the kinds of business one does in those sorts of places.” 

Mycroft had put a touch of lewdness into his voice, just a touch. But that was enough. Just as Higgins opened his mouth, Seymour cut in again.  
“What are you implying? We…”  
There was a warning look from Wilkes.  
“Well, you can’t just come in here and insult us like this.”  
“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Seymour. And I can do whatever I want. You see, I don’t need to imply anything, or ask anything. I can simply command and do things.”  
Mycroft’s voice was dark now, his expression icy.   
“And do you know why I can do this, Mr. Seymour?”  
Seymour and the other two men were silently staring at him.  
“Because I know things, Mr. Seymour. I know everything.”

“What do you mean?” Wilkes piped up, trying to sound unimpressed.   
“There is nothing to know, since we haven’t done anything.”  
“Of course, you were just enjoying a nice evening out in the basement of your workplace, listening to the exhilarating sounds of servers.”   
“Why we are in any room of this bank, where we work, is none of your bloody business”, Wilkes bit back, having found some of his earlier self-assuredness.   
“Who the hell are you, anyway? And who gives you the right to threaten regular citizens going about their daily business with some black ninjas pointing guns at us? We will file a complaint with the police and your superiors.”

The other two men nodded in accord with their colleague’s words. Mycroft let a slow smile creep across the lower half of his face, and counted to five before replying.  
“You may very well try that, Mr. Wilkes. But I must inform you that the government offices and departments you could file your complaint with, actually report back to me.”  
“We have friends in high places”, Seymour took over. “And our families are very well connected.”  
“But are those friends and connections in the habit of protecting criminals who pose a threat to our national security, I wonder?”

That stunned the trio into shocked silence. Good, Mycroft thought. It was time to move this conversation along now and on to somewhere more private. Astonishingly, it was Higgins, who had not said anything yet, since Mycroft had come in, who found his voice first.   
“Criminals? National Security? There must be a misunderstanding here, I’m sure.”  
“There isn’t, Mr. Higgins,” Mycroft replied and then rolled straight on. 

“Your activities have been in our sights for some time now. The intelligence we have gathered is indisputable. And today, our surveillance system was flagged again. We’ve received the final puzzle piece connecting your machinations to an international trafficking ring we have been battling for years. Drugs, women, weapons. This organization has fitted out some of the most loathsome anti-democratic groups on the far right for years. So, Mr. Higgins, you have been aiding and abetting individuals responsible for several terror attacks here in the UK – among other things. Thanks to the outstanding work of one of our best agents, we can now finally stop your doings and destroy another part of this spider’s web.”

Maybe that was a bit dramatic, Mycroft mused. But he was sure it would appeal to the image those city boys had formed about the secret service from the spy novels they read.   
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re …”, Higgins started to sputter, when suddenly Sherlock appeared behind the two of Mycroft’s agents who were standing near the server towers. They made room for him, as he stepped between them silently and walked the few paces it took to stand next to his brother. He looked at the three prisoners, but did not say anything.   
“You”, Wilkes breathed, recognition dawning on his face.

The next couple of minutes consisted of some tedious swearing and shouted protestations by the bankers that they had been cruelly framed, that Holmes had fabricated any potential evidence there might be of any criminal activities they might be accused of, that he just wanted to incriminate them, that it was all Holmes’s evil plan to get back at them, and so on and so forth. Predictably dull. 

Sherlock just stood there like a sphynx, face unreadable even for Mycroft. His shoulder did not quite touch Mycroft’s, but he was close enough to feel the tension thrumming through his body. Mycroft shifted his body weight slightly so that the utmost bits of his right shoulder and arm were moved in front of the utmost couple of centimeters of his brother’s left shoulder and arm. He did not dare touch him or even look at him more than peripherally, but he hoped his stance would offer reassurance, if Sherlock needed it. 

Wilkes and his friends ended their diatribe by demanding that Holmes tell this government type that it had all just been a prank, that he had faked the evidence and they had not committed any crimes.   
“But you have committed crimes. Grave ones,” was Sherlock’s reply.   
Wilkes huffed.   
“Look, Holmes, if this is about the thing at uni, I’m sure we can find a way to fix that. But come on, this is serious.”  
“Yes, Wilkes, this is very serious. Bit late for you to notice.” 

Wilkes glared at Sherlock for a moment, then smiled nastily.   
“You know, you were right earlier. We did keep copies of those videos.”   
Mycroft thought he felt Sherlock tense up even more, if that was possible. But he remained silent.   
“If you don’t clear this mess up immediately, we will send those copies to your dear big brother. I’m certain, the stuck up bureaucratic twat will not be amused at all and will be duly disgusted with his embarrassing fairy little brother, who took it up the arse and cried and begged like a little girl when the real men showed him what they could do. You don’t want us to do that, Sherly, do you?”

When Sherlock still did not answer, Seymour added:  
“Not after all the dirty things you did to protect your little secret. You know, it only takes a second. One little text with a link.”  
At this, finally, Sherlock smiled at the three men who had made his life hell at university. It was a smile that chilled even Mycroft to the bone. Then his brother dug into the pocket of his suit jacket, took out the envelope with the video material and shoved it into Mycroft’s hands.   
“Don’t bother”, he spat in an icy tone towards Seymour, Wilkes and Higgins, who looked quite horrified at Sherlock’s unexpected move.   
Then, Sherlock turned on his heels and, without another glance at anyone, left the room.

When Mycroft came to find him again in his townhouse, it was already the early hours of the next morning. He had sent Page along with his brother, and the security detail had updated him regularly. As had been planned, Sherlock had gone straight back to the house after Wilkes and his friends had been arrested. He did not need to be there for the rest, since that was more Mycroft’s territory. And it had been clear in advance that the evening would take its toll on his brother’s still fragile physical constitution. 

Apparently, Sherlock had drunk two glasses of his twenty years old Caol Ila, and had then just sat and stared into the fire his butler had lit in the living room. As Mycroft entered, Sherlock was dozing on the sofa. But he had not even made it across the room to the cupboard to poor himself a whisky, as well, when his brother sat up and threw him an expectant look.   
“Tell me.”  
He looked so young with his sleep-mussed hair and crinkled shirt. At least he had taken off the jacket of his new expensive suit. On the other hand, it did not make any difference, Mycroft thought. The suit would go to cleaner’s after this night, anyway. 

Mycroft sat down in the armchair closest to the fireplace.   
“In how much detail do you want to know?”  
Sherlock thought for a moment.   
“Just the interesting bits. And after tonight, you will never mention anything about them ever again in my presence, and I will never speak of any of it, either.”  
“I’m not sure that’s healthy, brother dear”, Mycroft tried. After all, he had witnessed the many nightmares and the flashbacks or whatever they were, where Sherlock would sort of zone out for minutes. These problems would not simply go away now, just because the people who had caused it had disappeared.  
“Nothing about this is healthy”, Sherlock replied drily. And that was that. 

After Sherlock’s exit from the basement Mycroft had had the bankers transported to an empty storage facility that he used, when he needed to conduct an ‘interview’ off the record of even the Secret Service. They had been handcuffed, of course, and blindfolded to heighten the effect. He had also let his agents know that they need not be overly careful in their handling of the prisoners. If their shoulders hit a wall going around a corner, if they bumped their heads, when they were shoved into the van, or if they happened to be thrown around a little in the back, because the car cut a corner at a bit of speed, he would not hold it against them. 

“Your dramatic move with the videos already made quite an impression.”   
Mycroft took a sip from his glass.   
“But when they arrived at the abandoned storage building with its dark, moist rooms smelling of oil and rot and then were tied to metal chairs, they were ready to wet themselves.”  
Sherlock chuckled.   
“You have always had quite the eye for interior decoration that will create the right sort of ambience.”  
Mycroft bowed his head slightly.  
“Thank you, brother.”  
Then they grew serious again.

Mycroft told his brother how the gravity of their situation had slowly sunk in, when the three captives realized that he was indeed not only Sherlock’s brother, but that he already knew everything, and they had not been arrested for their tax fraud scam. They grew gradually paler as it dawned on them, that even their alleged connection to the trafficking ring was not really the sticking point for Mycroft, and so he did not care at all for their protestations of innocence of anything concerning those crimes or national security. 

He told Sherlock how they had started panicking for real, when it became clear that they were being tried for their atrocious deeds against him, that there were going to be no lawyers and the sentence would not be spoken by a jury in a courtroom but by their victim’s brother, who they learnt wielded the sort of power that really allowed him to do as he pleased, at least in their case. 

Mycroft did not tell Sherlock about the way Wilkes and Seymour had talked about him, when they went through their phase of anger before growing frantic and scared. His brother did not need to hear such taunts again, and Mycroft had been glad for the chance to get a bit more physical with his prisoners in retaliation. That he had people to whom he normally left the more physical parts of his work did not mean that he was not able to throw a couple of well placed punches, when a situation required it. And this time, he had even enjoyed it. 

“At least one of us seems to have had some fun tonight, I see”, he heard Sherlock say from the sofa.   
His brother was looking at him intensely.  
“If the smile you’re trying to hide is anything to go by.”  
“I do confess that the fact does give me some satisfaction that those individuals who brought you so much pain are finally held accountable for their deeds, and that it is by my hand.”  
He went on in a more sober voice.  
“But I’d much rather you had never had to suffer because of them. I assure you, I don’t consider any of this fun.”

Sherlock averted his gaze for a moment, then looked at Mycroft again.  
“And how exactly did you ensure they are held accountable?”  
Mycroft smiled, walked to the small table standing to the side of the living room door, and retrieved the tablet he had put there, when he entered. He placed it in Sherlock’s lap and sat down next to his brother. Sherlock eyed the tablet critically. Mycroft nodded at it.  
“I thought you might like to see for yourself.”   
He made a short pause.   
“And they won’t want to keep any copies of this video, that’s certain.”

He wanted to take back the sentence as soon as it had left his mouth, when he saw the sudden panic in his brother’s eyes.   
“Don’t worry, we have been able to get hold of all the copies of your encounters Wilkes and the others still had in their possession.”  
“How can you be sure?”  
“I had not only their apartments searched and every digital and memory device, camera, and even VHS tapes confiscated. We’re also searching every other place connected to their own, family members’ or acquaintances’ names. I already set Page on the job to go through the material and to see, whether they stored anything online, in a cloud, and some such.”

Sherlock did not look convinced.   
“We will find every last visual or sound bit and text. I promise you, Sherlock, I will personally make sure of it.”   
“Why does Page need to be involved? I can do it myself.”  
“No, brother, you don’t need to be confronted with any of this again. Page is completely trustworthy. And he’s already likely aware of some of what happened anyway, since he was present sometimes, when you were so ill with fever that you believed you were still at uni.”  
Sherlock cringed turning away from him. But there was nowhere to hide anymore. Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder carefully.   
“Come on, Sherlock, let’s finish this. Then you can put it behind you, once and for all.”

As soon as the video started running on the tablet and Sherlock saw Wilkes, Seymour and Higgins again, he looked up at Mycroft raising a quizzical eyebrow. Mycroft put on an expression of pure innocence.   
“You clearly did not tell me everything”, Sherlock whispered, turning back to the screen.  
Then he shrugged. 

At the beginning of the sequence a large part of the ‘interrogation’ had obviously already taken place. The three men tied to the metal chairs were looking desperate, if still a little incredulous of their new reality. The split lips, abrasions and bruises forming on their faces and the parts of their torsos that were visible through the tears in their once nice shirts, added some color to the image of desolation. Wilkes looked as if he was going to cry any second, Higgins was whimpering quietly, and Seymour gave the impression of a big dog who had been scared into total submission.

Mycroft’s agents were standing behind and next to the prisoners, while Mycroft himself was leisurely reclining in a comfortable seat to one side of them, legs crossed, elbows propped up on the armrests, hands held loosely on his thighs. He was staring at his captives, waiting.  
“What do you want from us, Mr. Holmes?”, Wilkes started.  
He spoke with a bit of a lisp, because of his swollen lip.   
“We are really sorry for what we did to your brother.”  
The other two nodded. Sherlock curled his lips in disgust.  
“But we cannot undo it”, Higgins spoke up, sounding somehow resigned.  
“And it was a long time ago, we were very young and stupid then”, Wilkes took over again.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that.  
“You’re still stupid now, if you think that age could ever be an excuse for anything”, he drawled.   
“Of course, you’re absolutely right”, Seymour fawned, as if he wanted to be petted.   
When Mycroft spoke again, his tone was sharp as a knife.   
“For my brother, this is not in the past, so it shouldn’t be for you, either, wouldn’t you agree?”  
It was not a question, of course. 

Mycroft slowly got out of his chair.  
“I think it’s time to come to a conclusion now”, he said as he walked up to the men, who tried to shrink back, even though they were restrained.   
“Don’t hurt us, sir”, Higgins yelped.   
“There must be something we can do or give to you to make up for this. You only need to name a figure.”   
Wilkes was the only one who seemed not to be done bargaining yet. Maybe, despite appearances, Wilkes was more stupid than the other two, who had accepted by now that there was no chance in hell they could buy themselves out of this one. Or maybe he was just more deluded.

“You don’t need to make it up to me, Mr. Wilkes. I’m not the one you wronged.”  
“Yes, you’re right, of course. But we would do anything to make amends, Mr. Holmes, believe me, please.”  
Mycroft tilted his head and smiled. Then he stepped between Wilkes’ bound legs, bent down and grabbed the back of the man’s neck. He brought his face close to Wilkes’ ear, and Sherlock had to hold the tablet right up to his face to hear what his brother whispered into the man’s ear.  
“Anything, Mr. Wilkes? Really?”  
Mycroft brought his other hand to Wilkes’ chest and moved it down to his stomach almost gently, before he suddenly pushed it against Wilkes’ groin, making the other man cry out.  
“What an astonishing offer, Mr. Wilkes.”

Sherlock put the tablet down in his lap again and turned his head.  
“You can be quit the predator, brother. I always knew that you’re a very dangerous man.”  
It was an attempt to lighten up the mood, Mycroft knew. But he remained serious.  
“There is nothing I would not do for you, Sherlock. Nothing at all.”  
Sherlock gazed at him wide-eyed, then smiled shyly and turned back to the video.

The three ex-bankers looked even smaller and more deject now, if that was possible. They sat there like the proverbial mouse in front of the snake, frozen with the dread of what was about to happen, finally realizing they were doomed.   
“I think it was your misconstrued concept of what is important in life that led you astray, gentlemen. All the money and the sense of entitlement your families burdened you with.”

Mycroft ambled back to his seat and sat down again.   
“And of course, their complete failure of instilling any semblance of moral compass into you during your upbringing”, he continued almost off-handedly.  
“Fortunately for you, I have the perfect remedy for all this. After all, it should be the aim of any punishment to give the criminals the opportunity to reform themselves.”  
It was clear to everybody who saw it, that Mycroft’s smile was fake. 

The men on their chairs tensed, and even Sherlock, watching it on film, drew in his breath. Mycroft let the tension build to the breaking point.   
“There is a small island off the coast of Bulgaria with some fifty pigs on it,” he began after a while, as if telling a story.   
“The European Union uses them as part of a scientific project under the guidance of the different departments of defense to find antidotes against the biological weapons some of the more active terrorist groups are suspected to get a hold of at some stage in the near future. Our government is involved in this project, and as it happens, the pigs are in need of new minders.”

He stopped for a moment and looked into the confused faces of his victims.   
“You see, the previous ones apparently got a bit careless, though that is understandable, to a degree. It is a very small island, more a rock really, and there is just the one sparsely furnished cabin and the pigs. Nothing to do but perform the experiments, record the results, feed the pigs, clean the stable, you get the idea. Nobody else to talk to. Food and other necessaries are delivered once a month by boat, but the fisherman only speaks Bulgarian. Correspondence concerning the project happens through Secret Service people through radio connection, material exchanges are conductad by way of helicopter. There’s no other form of communication, no internet, phone or satellite TV. Safety measures, you understand. It’s a very secret project, and there are the biological weapons to be considered.”

Mycroft lowered his voice.   
“So, the minders got a bit careless and got themselves infected with some really nasty virus.”  
He clapped his hands.   
“Hence, the vacancy. Which you are going to fill. The placement will give you ample time to think about your life choices without getting distracted – by anything.”

Sherlock looked at his brother.   
“How long will you make them stay there?”  
Mycroft did not smile.   
“It’s a long-term position.”  
In the video, Mycroft went on.  
“Oh, and it’s all top secret, as I explained. So, your families or anybody else can’t know where you are, and you won’t be able to contact them.”

The shock was plainly visible on the ex-bankers’ faces.   
“You will have to decide whether to tell them you have to leave on some secret bank business overseas for an indeterminate length of time or whether to just disappear.”  
Suddenly some movement came back to Wilkes.  
“You can’t do this. “  
“You will find, gentlemen, that I already have.”

Mycroft stopped the video.   
“After that, there was only some more pathetic begging, as my agents took them away.”  
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.  
“Not worth watching. Weak minds being tedious.”  
He took the tablet out of Sherlock’s lap and refilled their glasses.

“So, they’re gone”, Sherlock said slowly.  
“Yes.”  
“You took everything they define themselves by away from them. Everything they build their self-image on. They’re dead in every way but the biological. Clever.”  
“Glad you approve.”

Sherlock put his glass down, leaving the drink untouched. He got up from the sofa.   
“I should like to thank you for your help, Mycroft.”   
That sounded very formal, Mycroft thought. Sherlock gave a short nod, then started walking towards the door.  
“No, Sherlock, don’t thank me”, Mycroft answered hoping his sincerity showed in his voice.

Sherlock stopped and turned his head towards him, a questioning look on his face.  
“I’ve failed you miserably for years. You suffered and had to fight on your own, because I wasn’t there for you, when I should have been.”  
“You did not know, Mycroft”, Sherlock stated, then added more softly:  
“I did not want you to know.”  
Mycroft looked his brother straight in his eyes.  
“The bigger my failure, since you felt you could not come to me.”

Now Sherlock strode back over to him and grabbed his shoulders.  
“Stop it”, he almost shouted, shaking Mycroft slightly.  
“I wanted to protect you, you fool. Your name, your career. It was my decision, and I would decide the same way again. My feelings didn’t matter, I could deal with it.”  
Mycroft was taken aback by the sudden force of his brother’s anger. He took Sherlock’s hands still holding on to his shoulders.   
“Sherlock . . .”  
“No.”

His brother shook his head vehemently and made a couple of steps back.   
“No,” he repeated more quietly.   
The anger seemed to be gone as suddenly as it had appeared.  
“It was my decision, my reason. I was in control.”   
It sounded like a mantra to Mycroft.   
Please, don’t take that away from me.”

Sherlock started again for the door. Mycroft followed him.  
“I didn’t mean . . .”   
Christ why were they so bad at this.   
“Sherlock, wait!”  
Mycroft grabbed his wrist.  
“Please.”

Sherlock turned again, his gaze was fixed at the floor. For a moment, they both just stood there with Mycroft lightly holding on to his brother’s wrist above the shirt cuff.   
“I’m sorry”, Mycroft said then.   
Sherlock did not react at first.  
“I’m sorry”, Mycroft said again.  
“I wanted to protect you.”  
It was so soft, Mycroft had problems understanding it. He waited.  
“Then, later I thought you would think me stupid and weak, if you knew any of it.”  
“I’m so very sorry, Sherlock.”  
Mycroft’s hand went from Sherlock’s wrist up his arm and came to lie on his shoulder.  
“I thought you would be disgusted.”

Sherlock was still looking at the floor. But he had not shaken off Mycroft’s hand. Emboldened, Mycroft took a step forward and let his hand wander to the back of his brother’s neck.   
“I’m sorry.”  
He pulled lightly, then stopped, making sure Sherlock could draw back. When he did not, Mycroft drew his head in all the way. Sherlock hid his face in the crook of his brother’s neck. 

For a few minutes they remained like this, Mycroft letting his fingers run through Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock gradually relaxing into his touch.   
“You must be tired”, Mycroft broke the silence after a while.   
Sherlock looked up.  
“I don’t know.”  
Mycroft smiled.  
“Well, I am. And there’s not much left of the night.”  
He squeezed his brother’s shoulder before letting go.   
“So, why don’t we try and catch some sleep now.”

Sherlock remained standing close, just looking at him. Mycroft did not know what to make of it. It had been difficult for him feeling Sherlock so close, when they had hugged. But he had been careful not to let emotions run away with him, like they had a couple of days ago after that ill-fated bath. He had just decided to make some joke, when suddenly Sherlock moved forward. Not a moment later Mycroft felt his brother’s soft lips on his. 

It was more or less just a peck at first, as if Sherlock had surprised himself and did not quite know where he wanted to go with this. Well, Mycroft certainly did not know. But before he had a chance to overcome his surprise, Sherlock surged back again. And this time it was not just a butterfly kiss. Mycroft’s prefrontal cortex had no time to intervene, before his body responded. 

Sherlock was rather enthusiastic, if inexperienced, and it was glorious. After a short battle of tongues and teeth his brother quickly got the hang of it, and they lost themselves in tastes and feelings of warmth and need and closeness. It felt new and strange and so very familiar all at the same time. 

The did not talk about it after. Because there were no words that could express what it had felt like, Mycroft know. Because he did not know, what Sherlock had wanted with the kiss and suspected that Sherlock did not know, either. And because the Holmes brothers just did not talk about feelings. 

But when Mycroft had lain in his bed for about half an hour, desperately trying to find sleep and failing, Sherlock came to his room, apparently not being able to sleep, either. He stood in front of his bed shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back. Mycroft addressed him but did not get any answer. Yet, a moment later, his brother got into his bed without a word, crawled over him to the far side of the bed, got under the covers and wiggled his way backwards, until he lay snug against Mycroft’s side. Then he took his brother’s arm and pulled himself into Mycroft’s chest, with his back to him. After some more wiggling Sherlock grew quiet. 

Mycroft, who had held himself very still and had let his brother manipulate his limbs how he wanted them, could hear Sherlock’s breathing deepen and even out after a while. Sherlock had just come into his bed and fallen asleep in his arms. Mycroft was almost afraid to breath, because it might shatter the moment and make clear that it had only been a dream. He did not dare move for a long time, as he felt his brother’s heartbeat underneath his hand that was lying across his brother’s chest. When he could finally relax into sleep himself, he suddenly knew there was a word to describe his feelings after all: home. 

When Mycroft woke midmorning, the space next to him in bed was empty and cold. And as he went to look for Sherlock downstairs, he found an envelope in the kitchen with Sherlock’s handwriting on it. Even before he opened it, Mycroft’s heart sank. There was not much written on the piece of paper inside. Just two sentences.  
“I can’t give you what you want. You deserve better.”  
His stupid little brother was gone again.


End file.
